Sharing Silence
by firelullaby
Summary: Watson bets Sherlock that he can't force a woman (OC) to leave within the first ten minutes of their date by being rude. When Sherlock finds that Watson's right, he's intrigued. Original storyline w/ canon characters. TW: Rape/suicide.
1. The Former and the Latter

Sherlock arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes late as a hopeful first strike for the evening he had been asked to endure. Watson had begged him to go out with a woman he knew; that was one of the few things he'd said- "she's a woman I know"- and Sherlock had obviously been resistant. He didn't care for women. He didn't care for people, actually.

But he had agreed to do this for Watson on a bet that he could get her to leave less than ten minutes into the date. This was a very generous time frame, as he expected it to take no more than the introduction to do so. He was absolutely sure he'd be able to do it; Watson was somehow unconvinced, and surprisingly agreed to this. Watson had also described this woman as "a puzzle he was sure Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve." Sherlock knew this meant whoever he was going to dinner with either didn't mean much to Watson (which probably wasn't true, as _everyone _meant _something _to Watson) or that whoever it was had a thicker skin than the average woman and would be able to handle Sherlock past ordering their food.

So Sherlock agreed to go to dinner. It wasn't a _date_. It was a bet, one that resulted in Sherlock's sense of triumph (like he needed it) should he win (as he always did). He doubted it would result in Watson's "I told you so" bragging rights, which seldom happened. Sherlock liked a challenge, anyway. They never seemed to come his way, and if they did, they weren't very challenging at all. And aside from describing

The restaurant was his favorite in the city. If he was going to do this, he was at least going to enjoy his own meal for the rest of the evening after his guest left. When he arrived, he was led to a table with a woman already sitting idly. Watson had said her name was Riley Parker. She was dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged her body but didn't expose too much of it.

She looked at him passively as he sat down and the continued to look at her menu.

That was when Sherlock realized this would be quite different, and his assumption that this woman was thick-skinned was correct. She didn't stand to shake his hand. She didn't say her name, or make any attempt to notice him. She just read her menu, sipped occasionally from her glass of water, and then closed the menu suddenly. She looked around the restaurant, but Sherlock could tell she was always observing him from the corner of her eye.

Two glasses of wine waited on the table. Both were untouched.

"I put your food order in, boss," the waiter said as he refilled Riley's water glass. She leaned away from him casually. Sherlock noted this and made a mental note to look for other nuanced examples of physically shyness. This evening could be quite interesting, and his exit strategy could be quite easy indeed, were his hunches correct.

"The lady wanted the same and said not to wait for you," the waiter added.

Sherlock nodded. _Hmm. _He took a sip of wine; hers was untouched.

She shifted a half inch in her seat when the waiter kept smiling at her enthusiastically. His eyes never wavered from her face- or her chest. The waiter didn't pick up on how uncomfortable she was- but, of course, Sherlock did. The waiter kept smiling at her enthusiastically, in spite of the fact that she was obviously with company. Her wine remained untouched and she continued to drink her water. Sherlock was growing curiouser and curiouser…

She looked around theroom again. Was she going to speak? He'd never thought that a woman could sit in silence for so long without feeling uncomfortable. But it was interesting. She would probably speak soon; silence was often too much for people. They felt awkward in it. Sherlock could go days with it and still feel unsatisfied.

They were only five minutes into the date- he was keeping track.

His phone buzzed; a text from Watson read _"did she leave yet?"_

Sherlock responded _"no. she will soon. 5 minutes left. SH"_

The waiter brought their identical meals out soon after. Neither spoke as they started to eat. This sort of silence never happened in the books he read, or at nearby tables when he'd go out to eat and eavesdrop… yet she was perfectly content. If she'd sat in silence for this long, she certainly wouldn't have a problem doing it for another five minutes, at which point he'd lose. It was his time to break her silence and give her few reasons to stay.

"How about we play a game," he suggested abruptly. He leaned forward.

She stopped methodically cutting her food and looked up at him strangely, leaning back slightly into her chair. Her green eyes were lively and excited, but she didn't smile. Sherlock assumed she wasn't as upfront about her curiosity as he was, if she even had any. Most people didn't.

"For everything I guess right about you," he said, "you take a sip of wine."

"No."

"No to the wine, I presume," he said. "And not no to the game."

"I'll play. But I don't drink."

He had her right where he wanted her- he was right about the wine, and he was going to press further into the matter, because as always… He was curious. But he'd already won a small victory even before the game had been agreed upon, and this pleased him.

"If you're so opposed to wine, why didn't you tell the waiter not to pour it?"

He didn't care about the answer. He knew she'd be lying anyway. But he still wanted to see her reaction- how she spoke about her demons, and how she chose to hide them. That was what made all the difference.

"I wanted you to pay for it anyway."

He stared at her curiously. Most people in her situation would utter some sort of brief comment about being sober for "X" amount of days, months or years, or they'd just dismiss it awkwardly as something that "wasn't _their _thing"… some _excuse _that would bore Sherlock and only fuel his desire to learn more about why they didn't want to drink. And most people in _his_ situation would've been genuinely insulted or at the very least assumed that she was joking. Sherlock seemed to understand both ends of this- though he didn't know how he felt about what she said. He wasn't quite sure he felt anything at all.

"So, you still want to play?"

"I suppose," she said. She took a bite of her food. "And we take turns. I get a go at it, too."

"Oh?"

"You need two to play a game," she said. "You need two to have a winner and a loser. That's what you want, right? To win?"

She was right, though he dared not admit it to himself or otherwise. He actually hadn't expected her to agree, let alone want to play. _That's what you want, right? No, that's what he'd get. _Sherlock never failed. He doubted that she'd make it through the first round without leaving.

"You first," she suggested.

He'd had this analysis running through his mind since she first sat down; he was just waiting eagerly for a moment to bring it up, and finally, that moment was here… He'd crafted this conversation so carefully, yet quickly (as always), though she secretly saw right through it. He spoke with an arrogance that she expected from him, though she didn't expect him to be so detailed and thorough.

"You seem repulsed by the mere thought of alcohol, which suggests you're either a recovering alcoholic or were close with someone who was. Given how young you look I doubt it's the former. And your fear or alcohol combined with the ridiculous amount of effort you put into avoiding physical contact- whilst, obviously, trying to look natural in doing so- suggests to me that you were drugged and raped at one point in your life."

She stared at him angrily, which told him he was right. He praised himself within the framework of his brilliant mind- a place where this often happened- and studied her further. Her reaction told him something; her body language did too, and had been all night- and that told him something else… Which told him something else...

"Sip," he said confidently. She took a small drink, her hand a bit shaky as she reached for the glass. Her eyes were narrowed angrily- but he wasn't done.

"Add that to the overcompensation of your appearance…" His words trailed off and he looked at her attire. "Your dress, trying to look like you maybe, just _might_'_ve _been asking for it, without genuinely asking for it… No low-cut neckline, but just the right amount of leg showing. An ever so rebellious excuse for only you to believe that maybe you _did _ask for it- because the thought of it happening to you when you didn't deserve it is quite unbearable, I presume. And I'd say this is something you've struggled with for quite some time, as your reflexes are quite unnoticeable to the commonplace eye-"

"But not yours, of course," she interrupted. Was she complimenting him? Either way, he knew she was right.

"Oh, of course not. The way you moved has been practiced, rehearsed, over… a few years, I'd say? Exhibit 'A' being the subtle way in which you lean away from whoever is speaking to you. You also flinch if the movement is sudden both otherwise it's a soft and slow defense mechanism. Exhibit 'B,' the way in which your legs cross more tightly whenever your waiter leans near you. Exhibit 'C,' you shift uncomfortably in your seat- only an inch or so, it's the most subtle of all your gestures- when someone looks at you for too long, though you seldom break eye contact, afraid to miss any possible advancements towards you."

She didn't take a sip this time and he frowned.

"What?" he said. "It can't all be wrong. "

"Half. Half was wrong. I don't drink for half."

He pounded his fist on the table- so loudly and obnoxiously that the tables surrounding them in the restaurant glared over at Sherlock and Riley. She half-flinched, half caught herself, as though everything he critiqued was now some aspect of herself that she needed to combat and tame. The animal in Sherlock liked the idea of this.

"Which half?" he asked. He'd venture to say it was the latter half- wearing an attractive dress was a conscious choice, though her reactions and body movements were natural and she probably disagreed that their genesis sprung from the abuse… But he was curious to see if she was willing to answer, which would tell him something else quite interesting… which would, again, tell him another something interesting...

"My turn," she said sternly, "and for everything I guess right, you have to answer a personal question about yourself. _Truthfully."_

Sherlock laughed. Loudly- yet again, so loudly that nearby tables looked over as though insulted twice. But she didn't budge now- her expression remained just as serious and angry as before. She wasn't insulted… Someone who was insulted would've walked away. No. She wanted to play his game… _She was curious. About him._

"Will you know the difference if I'm lying?" he asked.

"It won't be very hard to figure out," she said curtly.

"Fine," he said curiously. He opened his arms in a gesture for her to go ahead.

"You're clean-shaven but your hair is long," Riley started, "suggesting you bide your time until it's borderline unruly to get it cut. Probably because the thought of someone touching you is repulsive. Maybe you're not so different from me after all. And that _definitely _bothers you."

She smiled with a taunting sense of triumph. It immediately bothered him. He didn't want to respond to let her know she was maybe right. Was she? No, no. She couldn't be. He hated this. He hated her. She was the most frustrating, absurd-He contemplated all her words and leaned back in his chair, studying her again- looking for something else, something to outdo her-

"And your clothes are neatly pressed and not even slightly worn in," she said. _Oh God. There was more._ "Which suggests you are very neat and organized, perhaps borderline OCD. But there's a very small pen mark on your shirt, which tells me you don't look in the mirror often, because if you did, surely that minor flaw in your appearance would be corrected."

Sherlock stared at Riley. He didn't know what to say, so he just nodded. SHe was right. He would give her this small victory. Riley smiled again but this time it didn't make him angry. It made him… more interested.

"What do you do when you're frustrated? When the gears of your mind don't stop turning, and you're burnt out?"

"I don't want them to stop turning. I don't burn out."

"You're lying," she said accusingly, cutting into her food. She took a slow bite. "I told you I'd be able to tell."

_How did she know? _She smiled at him, waiting patiently for his answer. But he wasn't going to let her win. He'd have to wait for his turn again to outdo her. Then he'd feel better.

"I play the violin," he said. "It helps keep my mind straight. Or I drink. My turn."

"No. You got two goes. I get one more."

He didn't like her sass. Not one bit. He didn't like the way she tried to outdo him- let alone the fact that she'd just _succeeded _in outdoing him…

"Although you're just as aware as I that this is just a set up," she began, "you waited for me to speak only until we reached a point in the evening when it was painfully obvious that I wouldn't be the first to budge. Which I doubt springs from feeling uncomfortable in a shared silence, because I doubt silence is something that makes you uncomfortable. You probably live in it. The first explanation for why you chose to finally speak is that you've simply never felt comfortable sharing silence with someone else who enjoyed it, too. And that bothers you. The second option is that your sudden interest in talking springs from a desperate impatience to manipulate the conversation into a character analysis that would end- if you were to be so lucky- with me storming out of the restaurant, and you alone. In silence."

_No._ A single word occupied his thoughts for a moment:_ no. _She wasn't- _NO. _But he'd lived too long with his mind on high frequency without an off switch, and he was back in the game a moment later.

"It's probably the latter," Sherlock affirmed. "And that's not a guess, that's two guesses."

"I believe the latter springs form the former," Riley said, taking a sip of the water.

"All you've succeeded in doing is using an unnecessary amount of words to describe me as a sociopath," he continued, "don't look so smug."

"I don't think you're a sociopath. Sociopaths don't go on dates. And I was still right."

He was intrigued. Not about who she was- but just in the fact that she wanted to know, and evidently _did _know, who _he _was. He felt challenged, and not in an authoritative, "stop what you're doing" sort of way. He was challenged in a sort of "I can do what you can do" way… A way he'd never been challenged before…

"This isn't a date," he said.

"You owe me an answer to another question. I was right."

"You were half-right. I don't answer questions for half."

She frowned in defeat. The frameworks of his mind allowed him another little moment of pride. He wanted to beat her again, but he wanted to hear her do what he could do… It was… inviting…

"I'm going to assume that you won't tell me which half was right," she asked.

"Of course not," he said, back in his rhythm. He was winning again. He took a sip of his wine. "My turn. You have an attention to detail that-"

He almost said "rivals my own," but he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"-Is above average," he said. "Which suggests that your intelligence is above average. Watson is the one who set this whole ordeal in motion, which means he's not attracted to you- or he'd date you himself because that's his sort of thing- but he cares about you enough to set you up, but he doesn't care enough to set you up with someone who is _actually_ capable of maintaining a relationship. You may have asked if he knew anyone single. I sincerely doubt that given my previous analysis and your obvious distrust of men. So what I'm left with is this: you helped him in some way, he felt obliged to return the favor, and somehow- in his simplistic, tiny little mind- he thought this might be a good idea."

The waiter came over to remove their now empty plates, giving her a moment to contemplate what Sherlock had said. Again, she was obviously making a conscious effort to correct her reflex reactions to the waiter's close proximity. She sat very still, staring at Sherlock. He stared back. The waiter left.

Then, she took a small sip of wine.

"I'm a psychology professor," she offered. "My therapist colleague sent Watson my way for a study I was doing. We've been friends for a few months now." She paused. "And this wasn't set up as a date. It was a request. I wanted to meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes and get a taste for myself."

"Did you now?"

"Yes."

"Well, Watson never mentioned you," Sherlock said. As always, his rudeness was unintentional; it was just a byproduct of his social disfunction.

"Yes, well, he most certainly mentioned _you_," she said, "in my case study about traumatic relationships." She took another voluntary sip of wine before pushing the glass away from her. This made Sherlock curious.

"My turn for a guess," she added. "You said yes to this endeavor on a bet. Probably that you could make me leave before the waiter even took our orders. What does he win if you fail to do so, which you have?"

_No. She did not figure him out. Not again. _Just as before, he was torn between rage and some sort of misaligned, distorted intrigue- something he didn't quite understand, but it made him curious in the oddest of ways. It was a type of curiosity he'd never felt before.

He nodded. Most ordinary minds couldn't figure any of this out; they'd be too preoccupied by their emotions- usually the negative ones that Sherlock caused- to riddle things out the way she did. It was one of those funny situations when the "why" didn't matter to most people. But "why" mattered to Sherlock. And to her… Which meant she wasn't ordinary… Was she like him?

_You failed. _He took a big sip of wine.

"He wins nothing but the satisfaction of proving me wrong," Sherlock said, "which is more than enough and more than I thought he would get. "

"Alright. Do you think I'm attractive?" she asked softly.

He looked her over. "Your bone structure is perfectly symmetrical, which is a scientific mark of beauty, but you have a small scar on your cheek. People probably find this small scar attractive because it brings you down to their level and proves that you have flaws. Your eyes are a bright, almost frightening green. Men notice your large lips, because- well, I don't need to explain. You're not _that _simple. The color of your lipstick compliments the shade of your skin very well and looks like you're trying without trying too hard. The same can be said for your dress, which accentuates all the parts of your body that men find attractive."

"But they're not attractive to you."

"Is this your personal question?"

"Yes."

"You would probably look better with straight hair," he suggested, "but the style you have now show an obvious effort in looking good, and men appreciate that, like they most definitely appreciate your dress, though your hair would hardly capture any man's attention for quite as long as that dress would."

She stared at him. He was sure that this would drive her away, though his comments weren't an outright attempt to do so. He liked playing games with someone who played back- it seldom happened, anyway. That feeling that left him torn between outrage and intrigue still remained.

Her reaction was curious; she fended off a smile. A _smile, _for being told to fix her hair and that her dress made her seem attention-seeking. It was a smile of relief, and then- as if to say _oh, thank God someone doesn't find me attractive. _

The waiter brought over their check and she reached behind her for her coat.

"Please, before you pretend to take out your wallet as a gesture that you _might _be willing to split the bill should I not interrupt you by saying 'oh no, I'll pay,' stop. I'll-"

"No, I'm genuinely offering to pay. I was only joking about the wine earlier. I make more than twice as much as you do in a year, anyway."

Sherlock looked at her curiously. He had never… He couldn't… His mind was no longer a framework of brilliant thought- his scaffoldings were being pulled down, piece by piece, limb from limb. And he… enjoyed it. Everything felt congested and fogged. He tallied the score of their little game in his head. He'd been right twice, with one half-correct answer that resulted in no sip of wine. It was the worst score he'd ever earned. It was the _only _score that didn't result in a one-oh, in a quick, clean victory. And her score…

Was exactly the same as his.

She took the check and handed her credit card to the waiter. Sherlock sat in hidden awe and took another gulp of wine.

His mind… it was still fogged. He was just looking at her- and suddenly she wasn't a puzzle. She wasn't an array of fragments spread out before him- fragments that he ached to put together, to understand like no one else would be able to…She was no longer a plethora of scattered plot points on an indecipherable graph… She was a beautiful woman, and something in him ached for something he didn't understand… She was a beautiful woman with wavy brown hair; and startling green eyes; and big, red lips; and soft-looking skin; and a finely shaped body that something in him ached for, but still didn't understand; and a smile that… No…

_No. _

"You were wrong about the former and the latter being intertwined," he said, referencing one of her first analyses from before. "I've never met a person I felt uncomfortable sharing silence with before."

_Before. Before you. _It was his last play- his last attempt to cut her down and make her never want to see him again. A last chance to push her away… And it was a play he'd never used before: acting warmly to get a cold response. Inviting someone in so they'd push him away.

He'd never been…_ warm_ to someone before.

He'd never had to… _try_ before, and yet…

She was cold and uninviting, but… he still wanted- _No._ Was this what other people felt like around him? People like Watson, who'd stay because they were intrigued, not because they cared…

Half of him wanted her to take the bait and believe him. This half of him actually enjoyed their shared silence. The other half- the Sherlock he'd always been- knew it was just a play. A play to win. Something in him didn't want this. It was the something that made him an animal. A predator, a natural born killer with a squeaky clean getaway record… until tonight. And then-

"Bullshit," she said.

No analysis. No explanation. No harsher words, though he was sure they were swimming in her mind like a vicious tornado, and he was sure that some of these words were dancing on her tongue, desperate to escape. He could tell by looking at her confused expression. He'd gotten what he wanted: a cold response. But it wasn't cold. Just as his remark wasn't fully genuine, and yet…

A happy grin crept up her face as it had before, when she'd felt triumphant. Grinning was not a shock for her. It was nothing new. This was obvious in the way she smiled- in how natural it was, just as her physical shyness had become equally as natural, as unnoticed. The idea that someone who had evidently suffered such a trauma could still smile like that… It intrigued him.

"I mean it," he said.

"You're an idiot," she said mildly.

He fought to suppress a smile- and failed. It twitched at the corners of his mouth for a brief second before it disappeared suddenly- but not before she could catch sight of it. It made her keep smiling, too. He found himself working very hard to suppress the brief twitch of happiness playing up on his lips again. _Nobody had ever called him an idiot before…_


	2. Art and Science

Sherlock quickly walked up the steps of the stadium-seated room, towards the center seat of a row in the back. He took off his coat and sat idly as students filed in around him. He folded his hands neatly in anticipation. The room was big and fit approximately two hundred students, as he calculated. The front wall was covered with several messy chalkboards; one had notes from a previous statistics class on it, though at first glance Sherlock knew the answer to the equation was wrong. He sighed. This was a prestigious university, he'd at least expected the professors to be _somewhat _intelligent…

University was an odd place, especially for Sherlock. Almost-adults trying to transition to adult life made for easy eavesdroppings, as gossiping was still a common hobby amongst this age, but the conversation was dull and pathetic just as he'd expected. But he was waiting for one person- someone who'd put him on a tightrope, treading carefully between a deep and profound hatred for _how_ she made him feel, and a desperate desire to understand _what_ exactly she was making him feel…

It was just a chance to learn how to beat her. To study his target. Not to _see _her_. _He'd given himself a week and a half to recover from their battle and plot his revenge, but he needed more information. After their dinner, he'd walked around an unfamiliar part of the city to try and absorb his surroundings as a distraction. As a way to think of anything- see _anything- _but _her._ But it had awarded him no such comfort; every green stoplight reminded him of her eyes, and every woman with straight hair was not nearly as fine-featured as she was- every time he saw a figure in a black dress, he ached for the sight of her, and the stopped himself with an aggravated _stop _in his mind or under his breath. He'd quit this practice after two hours of failure.

So now he was going to spy on to see how she _acted, _so that maybe- no, definitely- he could find a way to _beat _her, once and for all. To outsmart her. To find some tick- some flaw- that he could use against her. To outwit her and make her suffer, just like she'd done to him last time they met-

_No, _he thought. He wasn't suffering. He was just- a bit thrown off his game. He'd allowed her the word "intelligent," because only a fool would deny that she was, but she'd never be quite up to par with him. No, that was impossible. It had never happened before. And it surely wasn't going to happen now.

"Aren't you a bit old to be taking this class?"

The puny, nasally voice interrupted Sherlock's thought process. He turned to see a boy leaning back in his chair, surrounded by a group of other boys who were all now watching Sherlock curiously.

"Age is no sign of maturity," Sherlock said, "and judging by the ketchup stain on your shirt, you still eat like a disgusting child. I'm amazed your girlfriend tolerates your existence."

"How-"

"Oh, please. You've been eyeing the blonde girl across the room and she's been staring back. But you look down immmediately after and shift uncomfortably, because if anyone else knew you were looking at her they'd probably tell your girlfriend about it and you wouldn't want that, no? You also have makeup stains on your shirt. You really should look in a mirror before you leave your dormoritory. Pathetic."

A few of the boy's friend's laughed as his face turned red. Sherlock turned around to ignore the boy. One of his friends laughed and said "shit, he got you good," and the boy whipered for him to shut up before the door to the classroom slammed violently and interrupted their conversation.

She was two minutes late to her own class. _Tsk, tsk_, Sherlock thought as another mental anecdote to keep his… positive feelings…? towards her at bay. She wore a sleek and well-tailored black dress, but it was less flashy than her dinner dress. It was a more appropriate length, and it had sleeves, and a higher neckline. She also wore a gray cardigan sweater over it that fit loosely and comfortably. It made her look a bit younger. Pinned to the cardigan was a live flower, purple and pale gray. It was small and he had no idea what type of flower it was. He didn't particularly care for flowers. Her black heels made her look taller, and her legs looked toned and long, even given her petite frame. _Her legs_- he tore his eyes away from them. They seemed to be a cause of great distress before and he wouldn't make the same mistake of looking at them again…

_And her hair was straight. _Sherlock swallowed and blinked, taking his eyes off of her to note that the other student's focus had snaped to the front of the room with rapid anticipation. He found it strange that they so easily fell to her attention. She picked up the stack of papers on her desk and and shuffled them into a neat pile before putting them in a folder on top of her bag. The stack was enormous. She pushed it aside and approached the blackboard.

"Right, so the assigned chapter was a bit long, that's why I gave you only one," she said to begin the class. She looked for a nearby piece of chalk and then turned to face the students, before-

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," she called out. _How did she find him so easily? So quickly? _He'd expected her to ignore him entirely, and yet… There she was, smiling at him. _With straight hair. _There were at least two hundred students in the classroom, squished together in tiny rows of stadium seating. Was it the fact that he looked much older than all the other students?

"You straightened your hair," Sherlock said loudly, so she could hear. She fended off a smile- but he caught one side of her mouth twitch up happily.

"I'm glad you found the class," Riley said, ignoring his comment. "Surprised it took you so long, though. The course schedule's listed publicly on our website, and I'm the only professor named 'Parker' at the university. Easy enough. I expected you almost a week ago."

Students began to whisper dully, wondering what exactly this elder stranger was doing in their class- and how their professor seemed to know him, and why he was so important… Sherlock internally smirked at her jab; it wasn't necessarily the smartest of insults, but he'd give her points for trying- which was more than he'd do for anyone else. _He shouldn't be doing that. No. She got no special points- in fact, she'd get no more points at all from now on._ Now that he thought about it, it all made him very… uncomfortable.

"Did you check the syllabus on the course website and plan accordingly?" she continued. "I'm assuming that you know this week's unit is personality disorders."

Sherlock was tempted to smile but he stopped himself. He'd never- _ever- _felt like smiling so much around anyone, and it irritated him. Now he was frowning in a silent fury. He was eager to defeat her, and he was sure it would be easy today if he could stop feeling so damn fogged up whenever she spoke or smiled at him…

"Lucky coincidence," Sherlock said. It was the first day he'd been free to go to the class, as he had been working on a string of unrelated homicides for the last few days straight. And again, he'd needed time to- _restrategize, _a better way to phrase it… Definitely not to _recover… _

Riley turned around and wrote "SOCIOPATHS" on the board. Her handwriting was neat and legible, and she wrote in all caps so that students in the back could see it more clearly. Then she turned to face the class.

She singled out Sherlock amidst the crowd of students. Her bright green eyes were visible even from his position at the back, up high towards the wall, where she was a small figure in front of the enormous chalkboards and lecture podium. Her eyes were excited. Thirsty, even.

_Stop it, _Sherlock said. _Stop looking at her eyes. _He tried to repeat his exercise from a few nights ago, when he'd walked around the city to distract himself. He looked around the crowd, noting what everyone was wearing. A prissy girl in a pink sweater and matching bow, who was obviously trying very hard to be noticed. _Well, Riley was wearing a gray sweater today, and- _

_No, _Sherlock thought. He looked at the other corner of the room to keep distracting himself. Two boys across the room staring at Riley, making obscene gestures in her general direction, probably demonstrating how attractive she was for a professor at a prestigious university, and just how… _interested _they were in her. Sherlock felt the vague urge to smash their heads together and perhaps combine their two halves of apish intelligence into one fully-functioning brain… _It's because they're stupid and barbaric, _he tried to convince himself, _not because they're- _

He shook his head and looked around again. A girl nearby was staring at Riley with anticipation, her notebook open next to her dillgently annotated textbook… Her hair was in a messy updo and she looked exhausted, probably from studying all night… She gave no care for her appearance, that much was obvious… And her blue eyes were covered by thick glasses, _but they weren't as bright as Riley's… and he wondered what she would look like in glasses, and-_

Sherlock huffed in annoyance so loudly that the boy he'd insulted before looked at him again in disgust. Somehow he always came back to a comparison of Riley, and what _she _was wearing, and how _she _looked… And he was growing frustrated by the mere thought that this woman had occupied his brain when no other woman had even been a blip on his radar before, and he grew _more _frustrated when he realized he couldn't understand out _why _it was happening… And he grew _more _frustrated when he looked at her straight hair, and realized that he was right, and that she looked good with it straight, but that she still looked just as beautiful as before…

"Now," Riley's voice interrupted, and Sherlock found that his eyes were already on her when his mind unfogged and snapped back into focus, "from your readings, can anyone list some defining qualities of a Sociopath? Go on, just shout some out."

"Manipulative," a student called out eagerly. Riley wrote it down on the board and the plethora of students began copying everything down, though some sat idly and listened.

"Pathological liars," said another student with a high-pitched, irritating voice. Riley wrote it down again.

"Impulsive."

"They need stimulation or they go crazy." She summarized this with "STIMULATION."

"Aren't they already crazy?" a girl behind Sherlock whispered in disapproval.

"They're irresponsible," another student continued. "Oftentimes they're criminals."

"They're promiscuous, or they have these crazy sexcapades. Or they rape people a lot. Kids, too."

"How poetically put," a student near to Sherlock mumbled in contempt.

Sherlock leaned forward. That word was sure to be a trigger for her. It was what he'd been waiting for. He needed clues- some tiny morsel of information that could more easily help him guess what exactly had happened to Riley, or give him something to push her away with… Something that would make her go away, and make his mind whole and clear again…People, especially young university students, were so casual in how they treated sex that he was sure it'd come up at some point. His internet research on her had proven worthless, though he'd have to try at the police station's database- he'd hack it next time he had the chance- and Watson knew nothing about her traumatic event. In fact, he didn't even know anything traumatic had happened to her. She was _that _good at hiding it. This was the perfect environment to see how she'd react without him having to directly stimulate her, and this student's vulgar comment was almost… too perfect. Sherlock waited eagerly.

Riley's back was to the class as she wrote on the board, so he couldn't see if she had a disgruntled expression or not. Surely she'd react to this. He watched for some small gesture in her body language to denote how uncomfortable she was with this word, where her students obviously knew nothing about the trauma he'd so easily picked up on.

But she didn't even hesitate or show signs of being distraught. She turned around suddenly and said, "'_sexcapades'… _I'm not even ten years older than all of you and I swear I can't keep up with the crazy shit you kids say."

She wrote "CRAZY SEXCAPADES" on the board. The class laughed loudly. It was obvious- almost painfully so- that they liked and respected her. She hadn't been this lively or as funny at her dinner with Sherlock. He found it curious- as always..

"Failure to conform to social norms," a student called out. Any possible reaction that could aid Sherlock was gone now. He leaned back in frustration.

Riley underlined this and said, "good, that's an important one to note. We'll focus on that one later."

"Antisocial," a student said. "They don't really need to talk to other people and they don't go stir crazy like normal people do."

"Use the word 'normal' with caution," Riley responded, "but yes, this is true." She just wrote "ANTISOCIAL" on the board.

"No guilt."

"A grandiose sense of self."

Riley wrote "NARCISSISTIC" on the board. There was a brief pause as people thought of other qualities. Riley looked at Sherlock and underlined the word on the board as she stared him down. He was tempted to smile, and yet-

_No. _That word was becoming a repeated comfort for him- a dull and so far unsuccessful effort to refute everything she made him… Feel? Was that it? Was he feeling something? He was torn between a good feeling- the kind that rumbled in his stomach when he saw her smiling, like he was a hungry animal- and a bad feeling, the one that came when he couldn't think properly, and when he started to feel like he was slipping up and being forced out of his groove, and something rumbling in his stomach made him want to rip her to shreds in the worst way-

He shook his head and looked around again, away from her. People called him a Sociopath all time, or narcissistic, and it hadn't insulted him before because these people knew so little about… well, everything. He couldn't say the same for her. He was desperate to. Did he feel insulted? No, that wasn't quite it. That wasn't the proper term. He felt… disappointed. Disappointed that she was so obviously excited with torturing him, disappointed that she thought he was abormal (though he was perfectly content in thinking so himself), or even-

_No! _His eyes drifted back to her in spite of his efforts to keep away from such a dangerous sight. She smiled at him as her hand, clutching the piece of chalk, lingered near this word casually. She stroked the chalkboard gently, running her hand along the words she'd written down and reviewing everything the students had said alrady. _Oh God… _This couldn't be happening… _No_. Was she doing it on purpose to taunt him? It seemed so… out of character for someone like _her _to be so… inviting…

He wasn't interested in her smile. _No_. He wasn't. He was interested in the strange circumstances that it seemed to pop up in, and what that told him; or the times it was absent, and what _that _told him… He was interested in the fact that someone could smile after such a traumatic event that normally shook people to their core… he'd never seen it…

He tried to convince himself of all this. But he found it impossible.

He was actually just amazed that she could smile at all… and smile so… beautifully…

"Devoid of emotions," a student called out, shattering his reverie.

"Yeah, and an inability to love," another student added.

"Good, very good," Riley said. She finished writing the terms on the board; students wrote them frantically in their notebooks. "I think we've got the important parts and we'll discuss some famous cases of these later in the week- I know you guys love serial killers like we did in the last unit, so I picked a few about that. But for now I just want you to get the overarching picture of what a Sociopath is like. And I see you're all keeping up with the readings. Glad you find the woes of the socially 'dysfunctional'" - she mimed air quotes as she said it- "so intriguing."

The students laughed lightheartedly and quietly. After she finished writing all these qualities on the blackboard, she looked at them with a somewhat rehearsed contemplation. Some of the students shifted in their seats in anticipation, as though something exciting was about to happen- as though it had happened before.

"Can someone define narcissism for me?"

"It's a deep infatuation with oneself," a student said, "oftentimes it even gets erotic."

There it was again- a comment relating to sex. She had no reaction to this one, but Sherlock _swore _that she glanced in his general direction. He attributed it to her obvious realization that he was a narcissist. And she was right, of course.

"And would you define it as a strict mental disorder or a personality trait? Or a social or cultural problem?"

The class was silent, thinking. Sherlock raised his hand enthusiastically to answer her, eager to rebuttal, but she looked at him and smiled as though he was joking. Did she realize that he was trying to bring her down? She looked back out at the rest of the class.

"Trick question," she said after no one answered. "It can really be defined as any of these, depending on the situation. Do you get the situational approach to psychology that I've been hammering into this course yet?"

A few kids laughed. Most nodded and some even shouted out "yes." Sherlock was intrigued; he'd never heard of a psychology professor who was so against the conformity and formulaic qualities that hard-boiled psychology usually offered. The students seemed very interested in it.

"But my question is this: why do you think a sociopath would feel this way? What would drive them to be so… infatuated with themselves?"

This, clearly, was not in the readings, because the students remained silent as they thought of the cleverest and most impressive answer- the one that couldn't be found in their textbooks. Sherlock looked around at a sea of puzzled faces. Some flipped through their textbooks, double checking that the answer wasn't some part that they skipped over. Others looked at one another in contemplation, hoping their friend knew more than they did. No one spoke.

"Aren't sociopaths supposed to be 'devoid of emotion,' and 'incapable of love?'" She circled the words on the board as she said them. "Yet they love themselves, quite a lot. Love is an emotion- a very positive one, in most cases. Sociopaths are not _supposed _to feel emotions. Narcissism is, arguably, a positive emotion- it's confidence, albeit an _over_confidence that's defined as unhealthy, and unnatural. Does anyone find this… contradictory? Problematic?"

There was a brief and nervous silence before a student called out shyly, "if you're free from guilt, shame or remorse, then you don't have a reason to feel self-conscious. So you can be confident to a fault. You can be _over_confident."

Another student chimed in, "maybe they love themselves so much that they can't love anyone else? Like overcompensation?"

"This could be absolutely true," Riley said. "But overcompensation for what, if a Sociopath has no positive emotion? What could they possibly need to compensate for if they're not really concerned or worried about the fact that they can't feel anything? Or does a Sociopath feel profoundly troubled that they can't feel anything? Do they want to fix it?"

Another nervous silence ensued. "So what are they compensating for?" Riley pressed. "For that awful, empty feeling in the pit of their stomachs that comes from… not loving, not feeling shameful, or guilty? From loneliness? Do you think a Sociopath can feel that?"

"No, because you just told us that they can't," a boy called out from the back of the classroom. Students turned around to look at him, mostly with disdain and disbelief. One or two students scoffed- how _dare _he insult the professor? He obviously didn't respect Riley as much as his fellow students did. "So aren't _you _being contradictory and problematic?"

"_I_ didn't say that a Sociopath couldn't be those things," Riley said, "your textbook said that."

"I'm sorry to be blunt," another student said hesitantly. Sherlock leaned towards the student, who sat at the front corner of the room, knowing that the student's preface was just a way to avoid seeming rude with her following comment. "But are you saying that sociopaths don't exist?"

A few students mumbled as though this girl was right.

Riley shook her head. "Not necessarily," she said. She then looked directly at Sherlock as she spoke. "I just don't believe that someone can strictly fit _any _personality profile. A person might exhibit all of these qualities except one or two. Can you still lump them into one group and call them a Sociopath? A person might have all these qualities but be capable of love. They're not likely to _maintain _a steady or 'normal'- again, a word I use lightly- relationship, but they can _do _it. They can _feel _it. Does that make sense? Are they still a sociopath?"

Her gaze wavered from Sherlock. He breathed out as though her eyes were staring into him and strangling him. "These people exist. I've worked with them. I've studied them, written case files on them. I've helped them cope and _stop _exhibiting Sociopathic qualities. And we'll study such cases next week if you're interested. And conversely, you can't label anyone who possesses a handful of these qualities as a Sociopath. Sometimes our significant others don't care about our feelings, and they go off and slept with someone else. But because they lied about it, and manipulated us into feeling like it was _our _fault, or because they didn't love us, and didn't feel sorry for that they did… does that make them a Sociopath?"

Everyone was silent. They contemplated this. A few girls- undoubtedly the ones who had been cheated on by an ex-boyfriends- nodded in firm agreement. But this was clearly not something the students would grasp right away; they'd go home, discuss this with their roommates and friends, and probably label Riley as their "crazy, rebellious professor" that they "loved anyway," and whose class they "thoroughly enjoyed" in spite of the fact that Riley was so "obviously a lunatic." Sherlock could picture these students after class, saying so.

"Mr. Sherman, I'm talking to you," Riley said after a moment. Everyone turned again to face the student in the back of the class who'd spoken so rudely before.

"How do you know my name?" he asked.

"I have a photographic memory. I knew it from the first day of class when I looked at the sign in sheet. It has a picture of your faces next to your names. Peter Sherman, sophomore. You're a pre-med student. When you took your picture you had a bowl cut that looked quite interesting with your very square head. I see you've remedied your mistake with a buzz cut. Now stop deflecting and answer my question."

A few students whistled and hollered excitedly, acknowledging her triumph over him. She gave him a "I played nice until you decided not to" look to justify her equally rude response. Sherlock looked around; a few students were smiling. Some laughed at Peter. He slumped a bit in his chair and folded his arms- clear signs of distaste.

"I guess it's subjective," the boy, Peter Sherman, said defeatedly.

"Excellent observation!" she said heartily. "Anyway, I'm just pointing out a flaw of psychology that I find interesting. I don't mean to totally refute hundreds of years of psychological analysis- analysis that has proven time and time again to be true. I just mean to say… Once you label someone's collection of personality traits as a 'disorder,' you start to look at people in a way that you shouldn't. All people, I mean. You become limited. Human nature and human psychology are meant to be _explored _and _challenged. _Don't take this textbook"- she lifted a copy on a nearby table up and shook it mildly- "as the word of God, okay?"

Sherlock raised his hand again. This time he really wanted to answer so he raised his arm up and down slightly like an overenthusiastic student. The students around him looked at him as though he were an outcast- clearly, nobody raised their hands in this class. It was free speech. But he wanted to be sure that she'd engage with him directly. She raised her eyebrows at him in anticipation. She knew a battle was coming. She crossed her arms, but not in annoyance like Mr. Sherman had. She was standing her ground, ready for him…

"Yes, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said dryly. "A question or a comment?"

"A bit of both, I suppose," he started plainly. "What's the point in taking a Psychology class if you're just going to say that psychology- the science of studying mental characteristics- is just… not a science, and open to interpretation?"

"Perhaps I'm trying to say it's an art rather than a science," Riley responded. "Would you like to compare definitions of the two?"

"No, that's alright," Sherlock said. "I'm well-versed in both, as it so happens, and-"

"Well for the rest of the class," Riley interrupted, "let me explain what I assume will be your definition of both. Art is a subjective interpretation of human nature; it is subjective, the way the artist interprets it. Much like Edward Munch depicts dread and anguish in _The Scream _with a blurred, messy sunset with choppy, raw colors. Or like Robert Frost sees a moral crisis in his life as two roads diverged in a yellow wood. But science- and psychology as _you _see it- is a definition of the way things _are _to the masses. Not how an individual sees them. Why we feel the way we do, and what possessing certain emotions in relation to our experiences and actions says about us."

She was right, as indicated by the roaring whispers around him. He'd almost forgotten that they were sitting in a classroom, filled with two hundred other students. That seemed to happen whenever she spoke. She was smiling widely, almost devilishly and rudely, directly at him- like she had at dinner whenever she'd guessed something right. This was just another game… He felt hot and disorientated. He wanted to shout at her but he knew she'd just take his venting frustrations as a sign of triumph. He needed to win… He needed to beat her, and…

"Yes," he said, "I suppose those are accurate definitions. So how can you say that raw _facts _of humanity are open to-"

"Can a fact be applied to a person? Can you be a liar today and tell the truth tomorrow? Is any person one concrete thing? Are any two people the same, let alone a large group of people? Let alone 'people' as a collective term for _everyone?_"

He knew she was right, but yet… _No! _She was challenging everything he'd believed about human nature- everything he'd ever learned, or taught himself, about why people were the way they were… Everything he'd used as a basis of how _not _to be, and how to manipulate people who weren't him… Everything he believed that made him special was… _an art? And not a science? _He felt hotter even still, and his brain was still fuzzy, and he didn't quite know what to say...

"Can you never feel guilt your whole life and then suddenly do something wrong, and _then _feel guilty? Does it mean you're incapable of feeling it in the first place and you changed, or does it mean it was there all along and you never felt it before?" _Oh God. Yet again, she wasn't finished. _

A student nearby shouted "yes" triumphantly, causing a few students to laugh quietly- almost directly at Sherlock. Riley was being so on the nose about everything and it irritated Sherlock- genuinely irritated him, not in the "I don't know if I'm irritated because her intellectual equality to myself is irritating" sort of way- and _definitely _not in the "her smile is distracting me" sort of way, both of which he'd been feeling so often as of late. He didn't like that she was trying to tell him what to feel- to manipulate him into admitting she was right. Even if she was, he wouldn't do it. He noticed from the corner of his eye that all the students had turned to face him. Students in front of him also turned to face him, though they turned back around to look at Riley when she spoke.

"Seneca says 'all art is an imitation of nature,' so-"

"Seneca is hardly an authority on modern psychology," Sherlock interrupted. "He's a philosopher from ancient Rome… A writer of tragedies. _Plays. _This isn't philosophy. It's not an_ art._"

"Yes, he's an artist. He creates characters- people- from scratch. Don't you think that takes a bit of knowledge about the human condition? And don't you think you need to know a character's psychology in order to correctly shape and understand what your character needs to do to yield the best story? You can hardly against the case that psychology is intertwined with art, Mr. Holmes."

_No, _the small shred of will that he had left begged, _no, she's wrong. She's still wrong. Think about her stupid hair. Think about- _

"Freud once said, 'everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me,'" Riley said after a moment. She had a way of interrupting everything he did to fend off the destruction that she caused. She reminded him a lot of… well, himself. "Freud, the founding father of psychoanalyzation. And how do you interpret that?"

Sherlock wanted to leave. He was done. Maybe she had won- or maybe he was just tired of her outwitting him… It made him feel tired and burnt out in a way that he'd never felt before. But that would admit defeat. He wanted to punch her- berate her, hit her- smile at her… He knew what she was getting at- that at the very least, psychology was a bit of art _and _science. But he wouldn't admit she was right. And yet…

She was smiling, and it was so easy to see why all the students were looking at her fondly, with "yes, you're right, Ms. Parker" written all over their stupid young faces, and he was tempted to do the same…

"Mr. Holmes?"

Her smile screamed "victory." Pure, unattested victory. She had one-upped him- not just tied, like last time, but completely _beaten him. _She smiled at him before looking at her watch.

"We seem to have gone off on a tangent," she said with a resounding finality. The class period was more than halfway over and Sherlock knew that he had time to get back on track, but that she was probably giving him a break and cutting him slack. He wanted no such thing. "And it's Friday, anyway. Just remember when you read the next two units, like I've been telling you all semester, psychology should really be individualized, and while there are concrete signs for certain personality types and disorders, you can't be so quick to name a shallow, manipulative liar a Sociopath. If you were so quick to give that, you'd probably just name it 'my ex-boyfriend or girlfriend,' right?"

The class laughed as they started to pack up their bags. Students started to pack up their bags, chattering quietly. Sherlock left quickly; he didn't stop to greet Riley, or speak with her more. He needed to leave, and… Get away from the echo of her violent words. And her vicious disposition. And her winning, rude smile…

He fled the classroom, trying not to listen to what she was saying, his back to her. He quickly walked down the aisles towards the front of the class- the only exit was a door immediately to Riley's left, at the corner of the room- so he overheard what she said in spite of his desperation to escape her…

"And maybe- just _maybe_- one day, someone you call a sociopath might turn out to be a normal human being after all," she said. "They might just function differently. And I encourage you all to stop seeing this as a psychological 'disorder.' Normal's a tricky thing to define. But that's for another class. And another genre of class subject, apparently."

Sherlock turned around to take a quick look at the students. Some still sat down as though they didn't want to leave. He could feel Riley looking at him but he refused to look back. Some of the students lingered to chat with friends while they packed up, and others were almost at the door already. Everyone was in a state of dreamy confusion- a sort of mild disbelief. Riley had just ripped out the basis of this course and turned it on its head. Some students looked wide-eyed and scared, though it was in a gentle way. Some even look corrupted.

She seemed to have a way of doing that to people.

People filed towards the door so Sherlock knew he had to get out of the way. He planned on following her home, even though something in him felt hollow and distraught. He wanted to get away from her, and yet… He was about to follow her. He'd tried to look up her address, but there were too many people named Riley Parker. Fifty three of them, actually. He'd even scoured Watson's wallet for a business card, but he had no such luck. He could call each person and narrow it down by tone of voice but there were so many to call and that wasn't as fun as following her would be. Maybe it was just an excuse to watch her. _No. It's research. Quick and easy research. _He'd narrowed down a few possible addresses by how wealthy the neighborhood was, but again, following her would be less effort and more fun. And he wanted to see how she reacted when he wasn't visibly present or in front of her. He wanted to see her without restriction to understand her, because he'd failed to do so for their last encounter…

The chatter of students was loud and irritating behind Watson as he stood at a nearby tree, out of sight from the doorway. Hoards of students exited and fanned out in various directions across campus. Two female of students rushed around the bend of the tree, in a hurry probably to catch their next class as they headed towards the Quad and the center of the campus.

"She's crazy," the first girl said as they shuffled past Sherlock. "Absolutely fucking crazy."

"Yeah, but I love her away," the second girl said. "Her class is so interesting. The last psyche class I took was just dull, hard facts, at least she makes learning it more about real cases, and not just boring textbook stuff. I need that for when I do therapy, you know? It's practical."

"She's a fucking lunatic," the first girl murmured. "She gave me low marks on my last paper because I 'cited the textbook too much' and relied on it for too many of my arguments… She told us to cite the textbook! It was a requirement! She's crazy, I swear it…"

Her words drifted off as she got out of range. Sherlock waited. Riley would probably take a few moments to get out of the class after she answered student's questions and collected her papers. He waited, observing the lively campus around him. A few students that came out of the class stared at him before they whispered to a nearby friend.

Riley finally came out of the classroom a few minutes later- eight minutes to be exact, as Sherlock had been counting the seconds methodically in his head to distract himself from thinking about herstupid _smile _and her stupid _hair._ Students said hello to her or thanked her for the lecture as she walked past, and Sherlock found himself again in awe- and confusion- of how much they seemed to respect her. He waited until she was out of earshot and just at the street to begin to follow her.

As she walked, Sherlock found it difficult to observe his surroundings. This time, however, it worked to his advantage. He'd tried so hard to do so before as a coping mechanism, but now he needed a way to outdo her- some small detail, again, to just shake her to her core- to break her- and he didn't want to lose sight of her in the bustling crowds. She walked somewhat clumsily as she held the papers, and her foot dragged against a brick paver at one point, but she didn't trip or even stumble in the slightest. A man walking the opposite direction smiled at her and her head tilted downwards. Sherlock had expected that, but it told him nothing new. He watched as a breeze caught her hair and it fanned out behind her. He tried to look away but found that he couldn't...

Another man hurried past her. She felt the breeze against her arm and quickly (albeit naturally) half-stepped to the side, out of his way. To most, it was probably a gesture to get out of the man's way. But Sherlock knew better.

They exited the edges of the campus and started walking down a more desolate, less-populated street. Sherlock was careful to stay behind and blend in with surrounding citizens; she never looked behind, but when she walked around the corner he made sure to hide behind a phone booth to stay hidden. When he came around the corner, she was gone- out of thin air she'd disappeared, yet there were no residences on this street, and nowhere for her to disappear to… No alleyways… Perhaps she'd gone into one of the shops, but Sherlock didn't pay much attention anymore. He was only two blocks away from one of the potential addresses, so he knew that must be where she lived.

He walked down the street alone, towards the street he now knew she must live on. He thought of the breeze as it hit her hair… _No, _he thought automatically. Everything

But somehow he wanted to know more. To see more. He walked home- far enough that he could take a cab, but he refused to do so, as walking sometimes cleared his head… And every few steps he took, he managed to squash the thought of her out of his brain with a firm _no,_ but each time he did so the "no" grew fainter and fainter until it faded away entirely, and he was left reinvisioning the sight of the breeze in her hair, or the sight of her thirsty green eyes…


	3. Push and Pull

Sherlock was amazed by how easy it was to break into Riley's flat. He'd assumed that someone who was so shy and physically guarded would make it hard to be intruded upon; but one quick look around the back alleyway and he'd climbed up a dumpster and in through her window. It was raining, so he was annoyed that he was now soaked, but he'd still managed his way inside and that was all that mattered. Granted, he was quite tall, so scaling the wall was perhaps easier for him than the average person; but the window wasn't locked- it was even cracked slightly, as if inviting him inside- and getting in had been all too easy.

He wasn't going to just sit idle and wait for her to get home. He was going to investigate her natural environment. He'd certainly learn more about her this way, but she'd be home in less than twenty minutes according to her university schedule. He had plenty of time to figure out her habits and in turn figure her out. And furthermore, he was going to turn this into another game.

He planned to leave small clues in her apartment- to really test her intelligence. Clues that would go unnoticed by anyone but him. And maybe her. He doubted she'd pick up on all the things he would lay out, but it offered him two solutions to his current… predicament, in regards to her: he would either dismiss her because she wasn't as intellectually stimulating as he thought, and this would cause him to be disinterested; or, she was as intelligent, and then his sudden infatuation would be justified… He knew the latter was probably true, but he wanted one last chance to deny it, and be free from the hold that she had over him…

Her place was not what he had expected from someone he thought was like him. The design was contemporary without seeming barren; it seemed… homey, almost. Very tasteful but comfortable. The color scheme was white, grey, and light lilac, with mahogany floors and furniture.

He stepped further into the living room to see where he could lay clues of his invasion. Directly across from him was the spacious kitchen; to his right, the closed door to the bedroom. He noted that the door was closed and found this very interesting. The lighting was natural from the windows. Her flat was decently sized, which he had anticipated given the luxurious neighborhood she lived in, and she obviously lived alone.

An entire wall was devoted to bookshelves, which he would investigate further in a moment, after he took in the general surroundings. The opposite wall had the small windows, one of which he'd entered through, and a plasma screen television. She had a small DVD collection that was almost strictly black and white films, and a thin layer of dust was on the remote on the table, meaning she hardly watched the television. The floors throughout the living room and small adjacent dining area were hardwood. A clean white rug covered the small living area by the large, plush couch. An organized desk was nearby, with a comfortable chair and her computer. Something else he'd investigate soon.

Everything was on a shelf, in a bin, or organized in some way. The space was immaculate. There was a small dining table with four chairs- perhaps she entertained household guests often… how odd. So she _wasn't _like him after all. At the center of the table was a bouquet of flowers like the one she'd pinned to her sweater; they were lilac, matching the hints of this color throughout the rest of the apartment in throw pillows and curtains. Some of the flowers looked withered; they were probably a few days old but looked to be in good condition. These flowers were obviously important to her, and something she attended to regularly. So Sherlock twisted the vase and rearranged the flowers until they looked subtlety different than they had before.

She was a neat freak; that much was obvious. The kitchen was sparkling clean, and the food in her refrigerator was organized to maximize capacity. She had an assortment of frozen chicken cutlets, two massive steaks, other frozen meats, and an array of ice cream... Ah, her one guilty pleasure amidst the otherwise healthy eating. All of her food was fresh and high-quality. He took an apple out and ate it, leaving the core in her garbage. Another clue for her to find- and probably be irritated over. He also rearranged two or three items inside to see if she'd notice. She obviously liked to cook, and if the fresh and premium quality contents of her fridge weren't enough of an indicator, she also had a shelf of massive cookbooks with small tabs sticking out to indicate potential new recipes or her favorites.

She drank a lot of coffee. There was an entire shelf in her cabinetry dedicated to coffee beans, of all sorts of exotic flavors from different countries. Sherlock left the cabinet door open a half-inch. She'd definitely notice that; it was a less subtle clue than all the others. He was being kind enough to go easy on her for at least _some _of the clues. She'd probably want some small victory and the more clues he laid out, the surer he was that she'd never notice any of them- and he was being ever so polite in giving her one.

The living room was most lived-in, though, and it was the only part of the space he'd so far observed that was messy in the slightest. On the couch was an unfolded throw blanket and a few disarrayed throw pillows. She spent a lot of time sitting there. What did she do here if not watch the television? Read? Probably, given the massive bookshelf. Sherlock knew she was the type that could be understood via her book collection- you could tell a lot about _anyone _based on what they read- so he'd go back to that later, when he'd seen everything else and wasn't preoccupied by the new sights and bits of information that swam in front of him eagerly, ready to be devoured.

Sherlock moved to her desk now. It was organized with neat stacks of papers and cups to hold her pens. He sat at the computer and tried five or six passwords that he riddled out from what he knew about her and the things she probably thought about often; he tried "Seneca," "Frost," "Scream," but none of them worked. He attributed this to the fact that she _might _be as intelligent as him after all, and suddenly wasn't pleased by the thought. _She at least knew how to make a bloody decent password, _unlike most frustration, he rearranged the books and pens on her desk, and gently shuffled the contents of the desk drawers (where he unfortunately found no personal papers- just generic housing and credit card bills). Surely she'd notice- it wasn't a clue, but more of something to drive her crazy and annoy her. Sherlock smirked at the idea of it.

He moved to the bookshelves. She had a predicable collection of psychology textbooks and collective works- three of which were written by her, but they were shoved in the corner of the shelf as though insignificant. Underneath these was an array of famous literary authors: Poe, Shakespeare, Hardy, Hemingway, Mansfield, Austen, Dickens… Sherlock found this peculiar for a psychologist such as herself. Then again, she _did_ like art…

Another shelf held biographies of an odd array of figures, including philosophers, famous authors, psychologists, historical British figures… Half of this section was also dedicated to books about government structures from various parts of the world. Another shelf held volumes of poetry and philosophical works- he noted a collection by Seneca and took it down. It looked more used than any other philosophy books. He'd examine it in a moment. Another shelf held various volumes of mythological stories and interpretation. And most interestingly was the bottom shelf, which held an assortment of children's books, ranging from contemporary works to old volumes of fairytales. These books were more worn-in than the rest, and unlike the other shelves, they were not dusty at all. One of the volumes- the Hans Christian Andersen fairytales- was moved out an inch from the other books, as though it was important. He opened it curiously to the first page and was assaulted by the sight of her personal notes, scribbled in the margins and empty spaces of each page. He skimmed the pages; some were illustrated and her notes were written over the pictures. Each page was plastered with neatly-written, small cursive tidbits of interpretation, analysis, or personal comments. Sections were highlighted and underlined in various colored pens. She obviously had a note-taking system that was intricate. Some pages had post-it notes added on as if she had more to say.

To his surprise- or his fascination and pleasure, he couldn't quite tell- every single book was like this. He opened two or three more on each shelf to make sure. The books of poetry had analysis and interpretation scribbled all over them. Small tabs also marked her favorite passages. The fictional works were like this too. As were the biographies. _The children's books, too, for God's sake._ The psychology textbooks. _Her own textbooks were like this. _But Sherlock noted that these notes were different- they were critiques of her own thought, or extensions. They weren't as… _nice_ as the other books. Certainly not as passionately interpreted or critiqued; no, these were cold, hard insults against herself, scribbled neatly in the margins. Passages were crossed out entirely. Paper pages were stuffed in like additions to the new chapters.

The other bookcase held several canvas bins. The first two shelves had bins labeled alphabetically; Sherlock pulled them out and found that they were detailed case files of people she'd worked with. He went to "W," for "Watson," and found that Watson's case file wasn't in there. Had she known he was coming and moved it? No, she couldn't possibly know that. They hadn't spoken since her class, when he'd tailed her, and she obviously had no idea that _that _happened. She shouldn't be expecting him. Maybe she kept this file at her office. Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

He moved away from the canvas bins, the Seneca book in hand. He opened it. It was scribbled in like the rest of the books. The phrase "the mind is slow to unlearn what it learnt early" was underlined at one point but Sherlock noted that it was also written in the margin of the book's front cover, which was otherwise blank (save for her name written neatly in the bottom corner).

All of his observations took a sum of five minutes before he was prepared to move into the bedroom. The door had been closed- interesting to note when considering her trauma… He was about to open the door, when-

"Ah, so today's it, huh?"

Sherlock turned abruptly. There she was, in the doorway, smiling at him.

_How had she managed to sneak up on him? Nobody had ever done it before… _

Her hair was wet from the rain outside. It was wavy and natural and it looked- _no, it doesn't look nice. It. Looks. Better Straight. _He repeated this critique rapidly in his mind but to no avail, as usual. She still looked… nice. She took off her coat and hung it neatly in the front hall. She was dressed in sleek black dress pants and a white button-up silk blouse. As usual, her clothes were tailored perfectly to her body. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she moved to the living room.

_She'd expected him._ So she _had _known he was coming. She had removed Watson's file. She had beaten him again…

"Left the window open for you," Riley said with effortless ease. She'd _let_ him break in… "Knew you'd find it. Too risky to leave the door open, obviously- don't want people stealing anything- but I figured you'd find the back way easily enough."

"How did you-"

"What, you really think I didn't see you following me home after our little classroom tango?" she said plainly. She moved towards the kitchen and opened the fridge, looking at its contents curiously.

"See you helped yourself to an apple," she added, still with an ease that made him… _un_easy. "Do you want something else? I assume you'd die before you let me cook you dinner, but I was going to make some for myself, anyway. I have two steaks if you want a bit of a heavier meal."

Steak. He did remember seeing two in her fridge… _Had she planned this? _Their meal would be just like their dinner da- _no, not a date. It. Was. Not. A. Date. _She was right- he'd damn near starve himself to death before he let her offer him diner. He didn't _need _her help. He didn't _want _her cooking. And she was being so casual, so- _inviting, _in her home, the place that he assumed would be her private place for serenity and peace, away from the chaos of the outside world that had hurt her…

_What was she doing? _She kept playing him hot and cold. She pushed him out, and yet… She was offering to make dinner for him? This was all so strange to him… He regretted coming almost instantly. _Maybe that was her point. _Maybe this was a game she was playing- acting warm to get him to leave.

"Stop," Sherlock said.

Riley cocked her head to the side. She looked so ethereal in the kitchen light, with her damp hair and no makeup. _No, _he reminded himself. _Stop._

"Stop what?" she asked.

"Acting so _casual."_

"I'm not 'acting' anything out, Sherlock."

"Yes, you are. This is… this is your private domain. Your _home. _And I broke in, and you just-"

"You didn't _break _in, I _let _you in."

He frowned at the painful reminder that she'd outwitted him. Riley closed the cabinet door that he'd left so slightly ajar as though she was unwilling to acknowledge that he'd done something to throw her off. She pulled out a few pans to start cooking.

"You have an odd assortment of books," Sherlock said.

"They're all for psychological work."

"Heavily annotated."

"Of course. See anything else you like?"

Sherlock looked around the apartment again. What could he possibly say to insult her? To get her back for how… _casual _she was being? He couldn't think of anything…

"Fairytale books are hardly psychological," was all he could come up with.

"Those are for when I did a case study on children. A lot of them feel it's easier to relate their traumas to a bedtime story they were once told, and from there I had to-"

"Tales of your work don't entertain me," he lied dryly, "especially with children."

Riley rolled her eyes- half-playfully, and half in annoyance. She then glanced over at the closed bedroom door.

"I assume you went into the bedroom, too," she said softly.

Her voice was fragile and nervous. The idea of someone being near her bed, the ultimate stigma of sexual activity, obviously bothered her, considering her trauma. Sherlock hesitated. Something about going in there now, when he was looking at her, seemed… too cruel. Could he lie about it, though, to throw her off? He decided not to respond and let her interpret that how she may.

"Right," she said simply. She put the steaks in the pan and they sizzled quietly. Sherlock was observing her carefully; she had a methodical approach to everything- she cut vegetables neatly in perfect slices. She seasoned the meat generously and flipped it over, doing the same to the other side.

"You don't use measuring cups," he said. In fact, he didn't remember seeing any in the house.

"Cooking is an-"

"Oh, don't say _art," _Sherlock said in annoyance, "cooking is following a recipe. You ignore the guidelines and your meal is ruined."

"And how do you think chefs come up with new recipes? Just by following _older_ recipes?"

_Damn it. _As much as he hated cooking and art, he knew as a scientist that innovation came from experimenting- from _not _following the rules. And she was right. _Again. _

"Besides," she said, "I don't need a measuring cup to estimate how much of something I need. It's not that difficult to calculate in your head."

Sherlock walked closer to observe her work- and to annoy her, as he assumed hovering over her and critiquing her cooking would probably do so. When he reached the kitchen and stood a few feet away from her, she stiffened instantly- and then relaxed. She was learning not to do that around him… And he still liked the thought that she was adjusting to what he sad, like she was following his commands, and giving in to his will…

He smelled something curious as he got closer- not the smell of the food or flowers…

"You're wearing perfume," he said curiously. "You don't seem like the perfume type."

She looked over her shoulder at him. He was inching closer but she didn't tense up. It was obviously difficult for her; she wanted to run away from him- to tell him to get out. But he had no idea she felt this way because she looked perfectly relaxed. She was better at hiding it than he realized…

But he did notice the slightest flinch in her palm as he got within a three foot radius of her, and that she shuffled her feet a bit as though uncomfortable. An idea struck him suddenly. A fool-proof way to push her away by pulling her in. And her reaction would certainly be interesting. It'd tell him just how severe her trauma was, even though she had a pretty good idea already.

Sherlock reached for Riley's left wrist, which yielded no cooking utensil, and held it. She turned around to face him, staring up at him with wide, green eyes. _God damn it. DAMN IT. _She had expected him to do this somehow… Otherwise she would have been caught off guard. She would've flinched, or pulled away, or ran to the other room for safety… She probably would've slapped him, too…

He felt a flash of heat. Her skin was so warm and soft… She looked even more flawless up close… She was… radiating…

He'd pushed any thought of touching her out before, because he genuinely believed it never would've happened, but… here he was, holding her wrist delicately in the soft light of her kitchen, staring down at her petite frame, wanting to… to hold more than her wrist…

_No. No! _He felt like he was about to start shaking from holding himself back. He tried to maintain his composure but he couldn't… He couldn't resist a small smile because touching her made him feel _so damn warm. _She stood perfectly still. Her pupils were dilated. Her pulse was racing- he counted it as he held her wrist. But she wasn't scared… no, she was…

_She felt like him. _

This was all new to Sherlock, and he was learning to let himself feel it, just as Riley was unlearning how to _avoid _feeling… But he didn't want to.

"Don't you know you're supposed to ask for permission before you touch a woman?" Riley said darkly. Evidently, she didn't want to unlearn her physically shy habits just yet.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised automatically in surprise. She was angry now- not surprised, not shocked, not scared… She was angry that he'd tried to touch her when he obviously knew she didn't like it. Sherlock supposed most people would be, but then again, she wasn't like most people…

"I will when you stop pulling me in to make me want to pull myself away," he said.

"You've been doing the same thing," she said, "and maybe I genuinely mean it."

She looked… _sad. _And uncomfortable. He let her wrist go and backed up, across the kitchen and away from her. He moved towards the dining area table and sat. Her back was to him as she continued her cooking work. She was ignoring him now- their friendly banter had come to an end after his move, and she seemed like she wanted nothing to do with him.

_Were all women like this? _He'd swear them off if that were true. He was boiling- about to burst- with rage, frustration… attraction… interest… _What was she doing? What did she want? _He was reminded of why he didn't deal with emotions, or people for that matter, and why that was perfectly okay… _up until he'd agreed to this stupid bet and went to dinner with her._

His fists clenched tight at his sides in frustration. She let the skillets heat up and moved to the table. She sat across from him, picking at the flower arrangement to fix it as though she knew he'd messed it up.

"Would you like some wine?" she asked. _Back to being warm. _He didn't understand her...

"You don't drink," Sherlock said.

"I'm offering it to you," she said, "not for me."

"No."

"So you won't be staying."

He thought about it. Something… that burning desire he couldn't ignore, but was trying so hard to get rid of… made him want to stay.

But again he said, "no," more firmly than the first time. And she frowned.

"So why did you come?"

Sherlock stared at her with his eyebrows furrowed in frustrated confusion. Surely she wasn't that aloof. He was about to say this- to accuse her of this ludacris, uncharacteristic moment of stupidity, when she said-

"I know _why _you're here," she said, "I mean, why did you come to scope out my flat at a time you knew I'd burst through the door at any moment?"

_DAMN IT._ Sherlock felt a flash of heat. She stared at him and kept fixing the flowers. _She had figured out another clue and he hated her for it. _He really did. He really, really hated her right now. How could she so easily pull him back and forth, between these two extremes? How did she make him hate her when she was nice but want her- or rather, want to investigate her further- when she was cold? He was about to get up to leave but something in her soft smile begged him to stay; it was obvious even in their silence. It had crept so suddenly, removing any trace of the frown that'd occupied her beautiful- _no, not… not beautiful- _face just a few moments ago. _Stay. _Her smile didn't ask. It wasn't a simple "please" attached to the request. It implored him- _begged_ him- to stay.

So… he did.

He stared at her. And she stared back at him. _She was beautiful. _He reasoned that it was only logical to recognize this; her face was perfectly symmetrical, her body just the right proportions… He didn't have to be _attracted _to her to appreciate that she _was _attractive… did he?

She didn't glance away as most people would after such a prolongued gaze. Her smile didn't waver. She was just… smiling. At him.

And before he could stop himself he started to speak. He was going to burst if he kept this to himself. He was suddenly furious again. Looking at her across the table… _The way she made him want her… Did she do that on purpose or was it unintentional? _No, she was definitely doing it on purpose, when she knew that he wasn't capable… didn't want to… to feel attracted. He was going to explode into a thousand pieces- pieces that she apparently knew so well, and could analyze just like he could analyze _anyone but her… _He was furious. He said, "you are the most frustrating-"

"Careful," she interrupted gently, "frustration's an emotion. Wouldn't want to get mixed up in those."

His leg twitched and he was about to stand again to leave. Her plea to stay- that smile- was still plastered on her face. _There she was. Smiling. Even when he was trying to insult her… _And the urge to leave suddenly evaded him…

"You pretend you don't have a heart because you're afraid to admit that- just like anyone else- you have one, and it can be broken. Everyone breaks, Sherlock."

Her analysis had come swiftly and easily. It wasn't a statement, or an interpretation- it was a fact. They both knew it.

"Just like you did?" he asked.

"Yes. Just like I always will."

"Yeah, well, you've done the same to guard yourself," Sherlock said, "and quite well up until this point. The tip to any game is never let your opponent differentiate between a bluff and when you truly have all the cards in the palm of your hand."

"I've never pretended I couldn't feel anything. I've just made it harder to happen so I know when it's authentic. So I'm harder to break."

"Hard to _get_," Sherlock said. "Not hard to _break_."

"You have to get someone to truly break them." She paused, as though she was unsure if she should continue speaking; but in a flurry she continued to speak anyway, with hurried but precise and careful words. "Did you ever consider that I played 'hard to get' not just because i'm genuinely uncomfortable with all this, but also because I knew that not giving in so easily was the only way to keep you interested? And that keeping you interested was something I wanted?"

He contemplated this. _She was playing the same game that he had been playing all along. She was just as confused- just as backwards- as he was._

_She truly was just like him, except… she could feel more easily. _

_And she actually wanted to. _

She rose from the table and turned to the kitchen. The skillets were sizzling, ready to cook; she took the meat from the fridge and gingerly put it in the skillet.

She shook her head lightheartedly from the kitchen and stared at the skillets in concentration as she spoke. "You can trick Watson, and you can trick my students, and maybe even other psychologists, but you can't fool me, Sherlock."

_You can't fool me. _He contemplated this. _Fool her… _was that what he was doing? No. He was doing this for his own benefit. Because something about letting her in… Something in the silence they shared, or in the words she'd shared… It threw him off. _He could not do this and still rely on his senses. He could not be with her and still be himself…_

"You were so… closed off when I first saw you," Sherlock said. "You flinched when someone got closer than you wanted-"

"I still do." She hadn't before, when he'd grabbed her wrist… did she _want _that?

"You played games. To figure me out, like you ever could, and-"

"I still do."

"But you didn't want me to figure _you_ out too easily, if at all. And you were vehemently in denial that this was anything more than just a game, just as I was."

She hesitated. She obviously didn't still feel like this anymore. Maybe she never had to begin with…

"One day you'll realize that not everyone likes to play games all the time," she said. "People like you are few and far between. And sometimes people genuinely want to know you as a person. _You_, Sherlock. All of you. I hope for your sake that the day you realize all this is soon."

"'The mind is slow to unlearn what is learnt early,'" Sherlock quoted.

She stared at him. The record player had stopped now; they were in silence. She felt sorry for him. But before she could respond and tell him so, and before he could notice the sadness that plagued her sparkling green eyes, his phone rang. It was DI Lestrade.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"An apparent suicide," Lestrade's voice cooed into the phone.

"You wouldn't be calling me if it was just a suicide."

"There's some signs of foul play. Come down. I'll text you the address."

Sherlock hung up. Riley had turned the skillets off and was putting the uncooked food back in the fridge.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Crime scene, right?" she said. "I'm coming with you."

"No, you're-"

"You got to see me at work. It's my turn. And if you don't let me come with you I'm sure I can find you."

_Damn it. _Sherlock sighed heavily and gestured towards the door. She grabbed her coat and keys and followed Sherlock out to catch a taxi.

She scooted in and Sherlock checked his phone for the address. The cabbie zoomed off and Sherlock looked over at Riley. She was looking out the window- away from him. _Cold again. _

She had a habit of dangling herself in front of him like a prize to be won, but as soon as he got close… she pulled herself away… And when he got to … _He was doing the same to her. _He knew that at this point he'd be a fool to deny that he was somehow, in some way, interested in her in a way that he'd never felt towards any woman before… Or anyone, for that matter…

Was that something he wanted? Sherlock's mind buzzed in the cab. Her silence made him uneasy again. He hated it… He hated her, sitting next to him, legs crossed, hands folded idly, looking out the window at the dreary rain, with the sting of a faint smile on her face… _What was she smiling about? _Sherlock looked back out his window and thought about how to handle this situation. He'd just now realized it was something he couldn't avoid… No matter how hard he'd tried over the last few weeks to squash her out of his mind, she was there, and he had to do something about it…

He either had to unlearn his habit of solitude, or learn to have both her and his undistracted senses in his head at once. Could he do it? And once the really knew her- once he figured her out… Would he still care?

Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before their games of pushing and pulling wore them out, and they either got too close at the same time, or too far away at the same time…

He wasn't sure which one he'd rather have happen at this point.


	4. Light and Dark

In the cab on their way to the crime scene, neither Riley or Sherlock spoke. Her perfume drifted through the air of the locked car and Sherlock was tempted to open a window- he couldn't resist the smell of her right now, and he wanted the outside noise to distract him from her silence. It was killing him. He wanted her to speak but he wasn't about to try and lure her out of silence himself… The farther they got from her flat, the tenser he got. He'd never spoken more freely with anyone else before… He didn't know what to make of it.

She seemed to know him, with little effort to actually asking him anything. He'd never met anyone who knew him, let alone so easily. She had defended him in her own class- she'd made it a point to refute that he was a Sociopath, like so many people seemed to think he was… She was inviting and she'd even offered to cook him dinner. She knew him… She understood him… _She was like him..._

He fidgeted in his seat and tried to distract himself, but as always, it failed. He glanced outside, behind him, and up at the cab driver… He was a silhouette, barely illuminated by the stoplights ahead. Sherlock couldn't make out his face or what he was wearing. He might as well have been invisible. People blurred past the cab outside as they sped onwards towards the crime scene. Everything was a blur of noise and color, hiding under the cloak of a black night sky… He finally looked over at Riley now, unable to avoid it any longer.

She was consuming him again. She was a tiny morsel of light amidst the darkness in the solitude of the cab, waiting to be devoured… engulfed… and somehow she still managed to outshine everything, to captivate Sherlock's attention… He saw her clearly now as she leaned against the window and looked pensively at the bustling city outside. She looked peaceful, even with the faintest frown that plagued her face. _She should never frown. It does her a disservice… It's so much better when she smiles. _Her wavy hair was almost dry now, and it fell effortlessly at her shoulders just like the first time he'd seen her at the restaurant. Her green eyes- the eyes that were always so lively- were relaxed and calm, an embodiment of a tranquil garden through which Sherlock desperately wanted to walk even if he wouldn't admit it. Even with her frown, she was peaceful in a way that Sherlock had never known, and could never understand… Like her mind was empty, even if only for a few moments, even though he knew it was probably racing just like his. Looking at her, even in her serenity, Sherlock wanted to scream because she felt so far away…

All the city lights outside blurred as the cab sped on, like he was drunk off her and unable to see anything clearly or pay attention to anything but her hair and smile and eyes; and there was a halo of glowing white, red, and green light around her that illuminated her soft skin, and suddenly- so suddenly it startled him, and so suddenly that he had no defense against the smile that crept up and haunted his face for a few moments- he realized that he _did _have feelings for her, and that he was hopelessly consumed by these feelings… He was being devoured and engulfed and swallowed whole by them… And that he had no way of stopping or reversing it now… _He liked her. A lot. _

Never before had an interpretation of a woman's beauty overridden his critique of it. Never before had he wanted someone the way he wanted to reach out to her, to listen to her- to _talk to her and know her… _he couldn't help it, and he was past the point in trying to rid himself of the feeling…

_And maybe feeling this way wasn't a bad thing after all._

He wondered how the simplest moment could make him feel this way. He felt a sting in the pit of his stomach- the sting that came whenever he encountered something he couldn't understand. It didn't happen often, but when it did… it hurt. Was it the light of her that so painfully begged to usher him out of the dark- the way she looked when the grandeur of the city seemed attracted to her, little and fragile Riley, almost like a magnet? He didn't understand…

_I like you. _He'd never thought those three words in the same sentence… he'd never thought to utter the words, either… But now the silence he'd always reveled in felt like his enemy, and he wanted to scream it to her, because only the loudest of screams from the highest of rooftops could accurately describe this feeling. That was what people did, right? They said these words aloud?

BUt he couldn't say them quite yet. Sherlock just had a very strange feeling that_ feeling this way really wasn't a bad thing after all… _Even though it made him nervous, excited, tense, angry, confused and happy all at once.

The cab screeched to a stop in front of the crime scene. The aura around Riley ceased to exist; the simplest moment was gone and his senses were overloaded with the sights and sounds of the crime scene ahead. He was going to the place he loved, to do the one thing in life that satisfied him, with the girl he… _had feelings for. _It was so strange for him to admit this to himself. It made him hopeless and yet it made him smile stupidly, too. Riley looked at him curiously- she noticed the stupid smile, obviously. He fidgeted self-consciously as he slid out of the cab. The left side of her mouth twitched, as though trying not to smile, before she looked away. It was… _beautiful. _Sherlock handed the driver his payment, finding it difficult to count out the right amount of money. He'd probably tipped too generously but he didn't care about that right now. _I like you. I want you… I…_

He'd hopped out of the cab and reached to shut the door but another hand was already there. A soft and warm hand. His hand engulfed it entirely, and an electric shock ran through his body. _This is what it always felt like to touch her. This is what it would always feel like to touch her. If only he could have more…_

He looked down at Riley, who stood in front of him. She looked just as angry as she had before, and Sherlock frowned, aggravated by her silent and displeased mood.

"My mistake," Sherlock said, stepping back. She slammed the cab door and walked away from him, towards the crime scene.

She was so frustrating… _All I want to do is touch you, _he thought, _to speak to you, to touch you, to have you… but you won't speak, and your silence breaks me like you say all people can be broken, and you won't let me or anyone touch you, or have you… You are breaking me- _

"Hold on, freak," an annoying voice called out, interrupting his thought. "Who's this?"

Just ahead stood Donovan, waiting at the caution tape line like a loyal watchdog. Her arms were crossed and she was looking at Riley with critical disdain. Riley extended a hand politely and opened her mouth to speak, but Donovan didn't budge and merely cocked her head to the side in an annoyingly authoritative way. _Riley had just offered a handshake. She'd offered to let someone else touch her.._. Sherlock contemplated this. Was it because Donovan was a woman? Maybe that made Riley more at ease… But even so, Sherlock hadn't expected Riley to ever offer herself to someone else, even if it was only a handshake… Donovan's gaze shifted back to Sherlock. Riley stood politely and patiently, her hands folded with no sign of injured pride.

"You know this freak?" Donovan asked Riley dryly. She turned to Sherlock before Riley could answer. "What'd you do, pay her to follow you around all day like a loyal puppy dog?"

Sherlock felt the slightest urge to hit Donovan but resisted. She hated him enough already and he couldn't afford to. If she had insulted him, he wouldn't even have thought twice about it. But insulting Riley… He looked at Donovan critically: her makeup was smeared, her hair was messily tousled… Her shirt was tucked into her pants messily as though she'd hurried to get dressed…

He looked around the crime scene now, towards the other officers. Last week it'd been Anderson… This week it would surely be someone else, as Anderson had a wife who traveled frequently but not frequently enough for him to sustain an ongoing affair. There was Reeves, who was known as a womanizer, but he typically went for blondes… Before Sherlock noted Detective Green just then, whose dress shirt collar was stained ever so slightly with makeup in a shade alarmingly similar to Donovan's skin tone… Green was a newlywed, with a baby on the way… Tsk, tsk...

"Give Detective Green my best," Sherlock said to Donovan, and she frowned in a knowing and hateful way, "and also tell him to stay out of my way for the next few minutes."

Sherlock looked over at Riley to see if she was impressed. The left corner of her mouth twitched again like she was fending off a smile. _Yes. Yes, she was impressed- _he was excited about this… Riley tried to maintain her composure and handed over her business card to Donovan, who was reading it critically.

"Thought you could use a bit of psychological analysis, since I heard this was a strange suicide case," she said, "I know John Watson as well. Is he here?"

Donovan huffed in annoyance. "We have people for that, but yeah, right," she said, lifting the caution tape for Riley and Sherlock to duck under, "just don't touch anything. Crime scene's just upstairs."

They walked up the stairs towards the scene, careful to avoid the hoards of officers entering and exiting the building. It was a new residential complex with luxurious flats; none of the residents had moved in yet, as half the building was unfinished. Sherlock glanced over at Riley; her expression was neutral. _Why was she still so angry? _Or was she now upset about the way she'd been treated by Donovan?

_"_Don't pay any mind to Donovan," Sherlock said as they climbed the stairs, "she hates _everyone, _not just me, and she's sleeping with-"

"Detective Green, I know," Riley said. "I saw the makeup on his shirt. She's obviously got a superiority complex. She's the only woman here in any position of authority and suddenly I show up with someone who no doubt outwits her time and time again… I'm not surprised it took her just one look to dislike me. How many of the officers has she slept with? Half?"

_God, _Sherlock thought fondly, _I like you so much… _ He tried to hide an impressed smile.

"R-roughly half," Sherlock stuttered, feeling oddly off-balance. "Last week it was someone from forensics. They both smelled like the same cologne. Way too easy."

They walked up the stairs, where they received a few pairs of gloves to avoid contamination of the crime scene. When they arrived, Sherlock breathed it in eagerly.

"About time," a voice said from the corner of the room, distracting him. Riley and Sherlock turned to see Watson hovering in the corner, his gloves off as though his work was already finished.

Riley smiled at him warmly and approached him. "Good to see you again," Watson said cheerfully, smiling as well.

He moved to give Riley a hug. Sherlock watched with a mixture of intrigue and jealousy- _Watson got to hold her, even if only for a brief moment. And he had yet to do so, and might never gain Riley's trust… _Riley hugged him quickly and then let go, stepping away from him with an ease that Sherlock knew to be heavily practiced. She blinked rapidly for a moment before she unclenched one of her firsts and spread out her fingers a few times, as though her hand were shaking. Watson either knew about her trauma and didn't realize that it effected her so deeply, or he didn't know about it at all… Otherwise, he would know not to touch her. Riley obviously wasn't used to giving people hugs- she probably never let anyone close enough to do so. Before Sherlock could whisper to her and ask if she was alright, she was across the room, walking slowly to absorb everything around her. Sherlock found himself smiling again, but then he snapped into focus and realized he had work to do. He moved towards the body.

It was a supposed suicide, and at first glance- for _normal _people, anyway- it would've been convincing. The scarring in her neck made it obvious that she'd been hanging a few moments ago before they took her down from the rafter overhead; her neck was also bent awkwardly as though it had snapped. She was spread out on the floor, just like she would've been on top of a table at the morgue, her arms and legs straight. Sherlock glanced quickly at Riley to see if the crime scene would startle her; but she looked at the scene passively, much like he was, just taking everything in.

The rope was thick and industrial and it lay nearby as a forensics expert took pictures of it. A kicked-over chair was also being photographed.

"Was that where you found the chair?" Sherlock asked.

Someone piped up "yes" as everyone went about their work in the crowded room. The chair was too far away from where the body had hung; even someone with a lot of leg power- which this woman clearly did not have- would not have been able to kick the chair that far away after standing on it to fix the rope. She was too short and too weak to be able to throw the rope around the rafter in the ceiling and tie it tight enough so that it wouldn't break. There was definitely fowl play here.

Sherlock approached the body and crouched near it. "Watson," he chimed out, "what do you think?"

"Look at the rope marks in her neck," he said. He moved over towards Sherlock and pointed at the neck, where jagged markings of the braided rope were seared into her skin. Riley hovered behind them and Sherlock could feel the warmth of her body radiating all around him… it was distracting…

Sherlock snapped himself into attention and looked at the rope marks. They were at an odd angle- as though she was being chocked by the rope, from directly behind her, and not dangling from the rafter with the rope searing into her neck. Someone had chocked her with this rope and then hoisted her up to make it look like a hanging.

"We got an emergency call," one of the detectives said. "Really muffled voices talking and then a sort of gagging sound, but it was too quiet for us to make out what they were saying. There were definitely two voices, though. A man and a woman."

"Do you have a recording of the call?" Riley asked. Sherlock looked over at her- _was she going to investigate too? _He didn't think he could hide his satisfaction if she could riddle out the crime scene like he could, which he knew she probably would…

"No," the detective said. "Sorry, who are you?"

Riley extended her hand again and introduced herself. Sherlock found it interesting that she was so willingly touching other people right now- maybe when it was on _her _terms, and she wasn't being lured into an unexpected hug or offered a handshake, it was okay… He'd contemplate this later, when he wasn't distracted by the body in front of him. The detective smiled at Riley warmly- he was married, but given how beautiful Riley was, Sherlock assumed she got hit on all the time… It made him… worried? _Insecure? _He never felt that way, especially at a crime scene, where he knew what he was doing… _She was taking over everything he'd once known. _But he… _liked it._

"I suppose I have to _explain _the evidence of foul play," Sherlock said loudly, interrupting their handshake, "otherwise, you won't get it. Aside from the emergency call, look at the angle and the distance from which the chair would have been kicked. She's also too short to reach the rafter from standing on the chair so how could she possibly tie the rope? She's also too weak to tie it tight enough. And the angle of the rope markings in her neck suggest someone put the rope behind her and pulled until she suffocated. Her neck probably broke postmortem when the killer hoisted her up to make it look like a hanging."

"So you think this is definitely a murder?" someone asked from a corner of the room. "Not a suicide?"

"God, it must be _wonderful _to be so _simple," _Sherlock said impatiently, "tell me, does it make it easier to sleep at night? _Yes, _she was murdered… By a man probably twice her size and strength judging by the physical labor involved in the crime. Construction worker, perhaps? Someone who worked here and knew it would be a good place to hide the body?"

Everyone looked at him in annoyance. It _wasn't _as obvious to them as it was to him, as per usual. He prowled the room for further inspection. She was dressed plainly and there was little to deduce from this observation other than the fact that she was not wealthy- definitely not wealthy enough to live in a flat like the one she'd been killed in- and she probably worked a minimum wage job. Her hands were rubbed clean and her skin was flawless in a raw and rubbed sort of way; she might be a jeweler who worked to polish jewelry clean all day. The rest of her skin was not nearly as neat, but this added little to the investigation. Sherlock was about to look for her bag, when suddenly-

"What's she doing _here?_" a soft voice asked from across the room. Everyone turned to look at Riley, who was bent over her purse, holding her wallet. "The body's at a strange location, and-"

"I thought I told you not to touch anything," Donovan's annoying voice called from the doorway. She stood just like before, watching over the scene with disdain, glaring at Riley.

"Her business card says her workplace is miles from here," Riley said. She politely handed the wallet over to a member of the forensic's team. "Her annual salary is a bit low for a neighborhood like this, based on her job as a jeweler… It's on the card… She can't possibly have any personal connection or memory with this place that would make her want to end her life here, because the building is new. So aside from the fact that the murder was carried out so sloppily from a forensic viewpoint, you also have a murderer who just didn't do their homework and probably panicked when trying to do the deed or get rid of the body… Someone brought her here- someone who knew this building existed… A construction worker, someone wealthy who might've looked into buying one of the flats…" She thought long and hard for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed, before she continued, "Or, someone who knows where to hide a body and kill someone quietly, but I doubt the killer is experienced or even that intelligent judging by how sloppily the murder was actually carried out…"

Her words trailed off and Sherlock realized that she was deep in thought, trying to make sense of the information she had. He knew this because he'd done the same thing time and time again, too. The various police personnel in the room looked from Riley to Sherlock, then back to Riley, then to Sherlock again, as though watching a tennis match. They were obviously waiting for some callous response from Sherlock about how he _knew _all this, or how what she said really wasn't all that impressive, even though no one else had guessed it… Maybe he'd feel insulted, or respond that she was stupid or wrong… But no, Sherlock just stared at her and felt a flash of heat that rose from his toes up to the wild locks of hair atop his head, igniting every fiber of his being… _Looking at her was bad enough, but when she said something intelligent… When she showed that she was just like him… _Sherlock found it difficult to breathe. He resisted the urge to smile and was embarrassed not because she'd beat him to the analysis, but because he was doing a very poor job in hiding the fact that he was attracted to her. _No one had ever outwitted him at a crime scene before… And he… liked it… _

"Oh God," someone in the room said afterwards, "there's _two _of them."

Sherlock resisted the urge to smile at this insult. _Two of them. So even other people think she's like me._

_"_I was just about to say that," Sherlock said to Riley. It was impossible to hide how impressed he was, but she ignored him and continued looking at the purse. He moved over towards the other end of the room and crouched down next to her, looking at the purse. She didn't even glance his way. Was she _still _angry…?

Inside the purse was a tube of lipstick, a few receipts from the jewelry store… Nothing important. Nothing that could give Sherlock any information about the.

"Alright, Freak One and Freak Two, that's enough," Donovan said. "Are you done here?"

"Nearly done," Sherlock said, "just another-"

"Nearly's good enough," Donovan said, "time to go. You can look up the reports later if you need more information." She gestured towards the open door.

Riley, not wanting any further conflict, walked towards the doorway. Watson followed. Sherlock followed, too, but slowly, to take in the rest of the crime scene.

Watson turned when they got outside to say goodbye to Riley; he didn't hug her this time, but patted her on the arm in a friendly way that Sherlock knew would antagonize Riley. It had no sexual connotation whatsoever; Sherlock had observed Watson around enough women to know when he was trying to hit it off with one of them. But he still found himself jealous that Watson could touch her, when she'd built such a strong fence to keep Sherlock out… He was starting to think it was just _him _that she didn't want to be near…

"Call me soon, alright?" Watson said warmly. "It's been way too long. Oh, how are Eames and Freddie doing, by the way? Have you spoken to them?"

"They're good," she said. "Eames is actually enrolling himself in university. Said he wants to study psychology. He's taking my class and doing surprisingly well."

"Well, look at that!" Watson said excitedly. Sherlock shifted impatiently in his place, not wanting to leave but not liking all the attention that Riley was giving to John…

"Who would've thought," Riley said earnestly, and with a small laugh. _He'd never heard her laugh like that before. _It sounded like wind chimes and he wanted to hear it again…

The detective who Riley had introduced herself to before approached them suddenly.

"'Scuse me, miss," he said with a warm smile, "do you think I could pick your brain about something for a minute? Donovan said you're a psychologist."

Riley nodded at the detective and smiled, before both she and Watson looked at Sherlock. She'd obviously almost forgotten that Sherlock was there… He shifted, ready to leave, and wanted to say goodbye. _I want to see you again soon. I want to take you out to dinner. I want to-_

"Goodbye," she said plainly to the pair of them, before Sherlock could speak. She was smiling faintly, but it looked forced, like she was trying to be courteous. Was he just another person to shake hands with and be polite to? _Had he always been that way? He thought about what she'd said in the apartment, but ever since he'd touched her, she was treating him like a stranger… _ It wasn't the devilish grin that she'd given him so man times before… Sherlock said nothing in return and Watson turned to leave. Riley turned and followed the detective back to the crime scene. Sherlock dared not look over his shoulder at the pair of them.

"You two got here together?" Watson asked curiously. "How did you-"

"I broke into her flat," Sherlock said simply, "and got the call while I was there. She annoyingly decided to tag along."

"Hang on, you did _what-"_

_"_I went to her class last week and then found her address. Simple enough."

"And _why _again did you break into her flat or go to her class?" Watson asked. Then it hit him, and he chuckled and said, "wait, don't tell me you actually think you two can-"

"Well, she's obviously not too pleased with me now," Sherlock interrupted, "it's evident in the tone of her voice and her body language, how she turns to you when speaking to both of us at once, and how she blatantly ignores me, so no, we obviously _can't_-"

"Sherlock, what-"

Sherlock pressed ahead at a quicker pace towards the main road, his mind burning. Watson pitied him now. Pitied him because he thought he stood a chance in dating Riley- because he actually _liked _her. He needed to focus on the crime scene._ Not on her. _Thinking about her right now was… disappointing. He suddenly foresaw a long night of violin playing ahead, to distract himself from that pang in the pit of his stomach, and from the flash of heat that he felt whenever he thought about her hair and eyes and smile-

_Focus on the crime scene. Focus. On. The. Crime. Scene. _He'd figured out that it was a murder but he had no idea who it could have been. He was missing something. _He couldn't do as well as he normally did when she was there, shining like fireworks just across the room, making him want her… _Sherlock's mind buzzed and he started to go over every detail of the crime scene in his mind, until-

"Listen, I didn't mean to…" Watson's voice trailed off as he raised an arm to hail a cab. He fumbled for the right words and heaved a sigh of annoyance. "Do you- do you _like _her?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I- she's a _woman, _and she's- frustrating- and you know I consider myself married to my work, and-"

"Alright, alright," Watson said earnestly, walking down the street a bit, "don't get all worked up… Wow, if I had known you'd take such an interest in her-"

Sherlock turned abruptly to look at Watson. "I'm not _interested _in her," SHerlock said. "She's… frustrating."

"Yeah, well, she _is _a woman," Watson said with a laugh. The two climbed into the cab. "She also doesn't date much, so even if- if you _were _interested, I don't know…"

He trailed off and then added with a disbelieving laugh, "Sherlock Holmes, interested in a woman-"

"I'm not," Sherlock said firmly. He'd just admitted it to himself- it was too early to admit it to anyone else, and given the current state of he and Riley's relationship… He wasn't sure his desires would ever reach fruition. He shook his head as he slid into the cab- and he shut the door before Watson got in when an idea hit him suddenly.

"Take another one," Sherlock said. "I'm not going home."

"Don't go hounding her down again, Sherlock, give it a-"

"I'm not," he repeated. "I have something else to do."

The cab sped off, leaving Watson at the curb of the crime scene alone- something that had happened time and time again. Sherlock asked to be dropped at the hospital. If he was going to fix this with Riley- and he really _needed_ to- he was going to figure out why she was the way she was. He was going to read her files. Maybe then he could understand how to work past her trauma… So she'd let him touch her… So she'd let him in more easily, and wouldn't run away when he tried to have her… _Maybe he could get her to like him, too. _

He remembered just under an hour ago, when he'd sat in a cab and had a revelation that he liked Riley… He held the snapshot of this moment in his mind for a while. She was… so beautiful. _No. _She was a virus. A plague. She was ruining him. She was something that crept into his mind so suddenly and took over, ready to devour him, the host… And just a short while ago, he'd thought that it was a good thing. _She was pushing and pulling him away so frequently, so easily… _She pulled him up a cliff just to push him off of it, and now he was caught free-falling into an abyss, into something he didn't know. _Just a short while ago, he'd thought she was a good thing. _Now, he wasn't so sure. Just under an hour ago he'd wanted her- and now… Now he didn't even think she'd speak to him again if she could have things her way.

He hoped that she wouldn't go away. He hoped she would talk to him. Maybe then he could tell her what she meant to him. Did people do that? Just… profess their feelings for one another, openly and honestly? He'd never felt like this before, let alone acted on it. He shifted in the seat of the cab, uncomfortable in his own skin. He really, really hoped and needed her to do anything but stay away from him… but right now, that was all she seemed to want to do.


	5. Asking and Telling

**_NOTE: I'm really sorry that it's taking so long to post new chapters. I'm working as hard as I can but I have final exams. I'll be on winter break starting tomorrow so I will update more frequently._**

**_Also: thank you to everyone who follows and reads this, especially to the few of you who've begged me to keep writing. Your reviews and kind words motivate me to stay up til 5am writing when I should be studying; sorry to keep you waiting. - FLB_**

Sherlock arrived at the hospital just before midnight. Although patients were being carted through the hallways, or doctors were rushing around to attend to various patients, the hospital was quite dull at this time of night. He noticed the female attending nurse was absent, along with the doctor who usually sat at the desk nearby filing paperwork, staring at the nurse's chest all the time. Their absence must've meant they were in a storage closet somewhere, continuing their affair in spite of the other nurse on call that he was having an affair with, too…

Sherlock sighed at the thought of it. Ordinary people filled their lives with drama to compensate for the white, empty noise in their average minds… And he was thankful that he had better things to preoccupy his mind with, even if lately these things had been pushed out to make room for someone else…

He headed to the elevators and rode down to the morgue, where he felt most at home. From the morgue's computer, he could hack into other databases, like patient history at this particular hospital or at other hospitals in the area, or the police database. It would be easy to find Riley's medical history, which would include the document of what had happened to her. He was sick of thinking about it; not about _her, _obviously, now that he'd admitted his feelings for her, if even only to himself. He'd moved out of the and into an unknown territory- one that begged him to act on his feelings and to make something out of them. No, he wasn't sick of thinking about _her. _He was sick of thinking about _it- _the thing that had made her so traumatized, so guarded… The thing that had birthed a void where here heart might've once been.

_No. That was the difference between the two of them. She still has feelings. They've always been there- she's just learned to guard herself. She's learned not to give them up too easily. _

_But he was just learning that he had them at all…_

Once he learned what happened to her, he would understand her. It was that simple. She wouldn't be an enigma anymore. _Maybe he'd lose interest… _Days ago he would've looked forward to that, and he would've encouraged it. But now he couldn't bear the thought of it.

What if it was true? What if he stopped caring once he knew why she acted the way she acted? _No. _That wouldn't happen… It couldn't happen…

People survived trauma all the time; she shouldn't be so guarded about it, especially given her career- she had the tools to get over it but she refused to. He started tugging at his hair as he walked, frustrated by the mere thought of it.

A body had been left out on the table, half-unzipped from its bag. Someone had obviously been working in there, or maybe still was. Sherlock didn't feel like talking, but he assumed that it was Molly who'd be working this late- she always did- and thus he assumed that she'd be back soon. He'd just ignore her and she'd go away, as always. He wasn't in the mood for conversation.

The body on the table was obviously a drowning victim; it was obvious in his chapped and dry skin, and the pale, blueish hue of it. He couldn't be older than twenty years old. Maybe Sherlock would inspect the body later on, if he felt so inclined, but right now it wasn't a particularly interesting case and Sherlock had more important things to do.

After a bit of tech wizardry, Sherlock was searching through the various databases for "RILEY PARKER." Much to his surprise, her record was anything but clean: she'd been detained but let go with a warning for public drunkenness, she'd been let go with _another _warning for stealing from a local bookshop… She'd even been detained for trying to sleep on a bench in Hyde Park. Sherlock smiled and wondered what could ever make her want to sleep at a park- maybe this was back when she drank alcohol. All of the chargers were from her late teenage years.

Sherlock was surprised; Riley hardly seemed like the type to misbehave. He didn't know the unruly Riley that her criminal history painted an unusual picture of; he tried to imagine her as a drunken party girl but he just… couldn't.

And furthermore, where was the police report for the incident? Sherlock suddenly realized that it might've gone unreported. Statistically, a lot of rapes and sexual assaults did… But it at least should've been in the hospital records. She would've had to go to the hospital to be treated for the incident, at the very least, but that wasn't reported either.

Sherlock had come to find answers but he found himself with dozens of questions. How was it that the put-together, scholarly Riley Parker had a record stained with various misdemeanors? Was she wild before she got to university, or did she-

"Looking for something?"

_No… _Sherlock turned around slowly and saw Riley leaning against the doorway, her arms folded delicately as the lights from the hallway cast over her like a shadow. _How long had she been standing there? Did she follow him from the crime scene? _She looked victorious- like she'd won a battle that they hadn't even started yet. She was smirking at him as she walked further into the morgue, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock expected her to be startled by the dead body on the table but she scarcely seemed to notice it, until-

"Drowning victim?" she suggested plainly. She didn't even look at the body that closely, so… _how did she know? _Only a trained medical professional or someone like Sherlock could have known that. Sherlock had to keep reminding himself that she was, indeed, like him…

"How do you figure?" Sherlock asked. He wasn't going to let her win without an explanation, even if it excited him to know she could analyze this dead body like he could.

"Chapped lips would normally tip me off but seeing as it's winter that's hardly evidence. The rest of his skin is dried out and pale. And blue. But mostly you can tell by his expression. He looks afraid, even with his eyes shut. And there's no other signs of foul play or wounds, so why else would he be afraid? Most people overlook the expression but it's very important.

She was right; Sherlock hadn't even noticed the look of terror on his face… His mouth had been closed, but his lips were stretched out as though he'd screamed all the time he was drowning in the water.

"I'm assuming you came to look up my files," Riley said quietly. Sherlock frowned. She entered the room, taking up a chair a few feet away from him.

"And _I_ assume you followed me here from the crime scene, or Watson told you where I was going," Sherlock said, turning away from the computer. He was angry enough that his efforts had proved unfruitful, but now she was here to tease him about it…

"Oh, no," she said. "I knew you'd try and look them up sooner or later. But they're not available anywhere. Not even in private hospital databases."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and stared straight through her. He didn't mind as much when she beat him nowadays; he actually found it… intriguing. Endearing. _Attractive. _**As much as it pained him to know he was no longer the wittiest person in the room, he still found a strange sort of solace in knowing he wasn't alone. **

"I thought you were mad at me," he piped up in annoyance. "So why are you here?"

She stared back at him. "Because you broke into my flat and touched me," she said bleakly, "but I…"

She cut herself off; Sherlock stared at her expectantly but she didn't speak. She was starting a new game… And this was a game he wanted to win, because winning meant knowing more about her, which meant finding a way to get past her walls to be with her… And right now, he was losing. His last resort for finding information about her… _Research, _for God's sake, not even observation or relying on his senses… had failed. She had blocked it. She'd won.

"Public drunkenness," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Theft at a bookstore. Trying to sleep at Hyde Park."

"Yes, all small parts of my history that no one seems to know about. I got off on all the charges, though. Nothing too serious."

"Lucky you," Sherlock said mildly. But she smiled at him and the corners of his mouth twitched into a hopeless smile.

"I wouldn't say so," she said. _No?_ _Another mystery… _Sherlock felt numb. The gears of his mind were turning at hyper-speed and he was afraid they'd burn out and run him off the rails soon. He tugged at his blazer uncomfortably, as though every article of clothing was too tight.

"No?" he asked.

"No," was all she responded.

_You… are so frustrating. _Not only did he not get what he came for, but now she was interrupting him, too.

"It went unreported," she said ambiguously. Her tone had a forced nonchalantness that Sherlock saw right through. "Wasn't investigated to the police and I didn't go to a doctor or anything. Sometimes if feels like it never even happened."

"That's a lie," Sherlock said. "You've geared every aspect of your life towards avoiding the thing that hurt you. You were born from trauma and you made isolation your ally."

"Yes, well, I suppose your personality just made you isolated. So perhaps you understand the burden that I feel even without being… 'born from trauma.'"

Riley remained silent as though contemplating those three words- _born from trauma_. She stared pensively ahead, like she was looking behind him- or right through him. Her green eyes were empty and as always when he was around her, Sherlock found himself at a loss for words.

Should he just… _ask _what had happened to her_? _Would he have to hammer it out of her, or try to trick her and play games with her, like he had the first time they'd talked at dinner a few weeks ago? She was staring at him now, not through him, but right _at _him- _did she want him to ask her what the file said? _Would she spill the information if he did?

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it abruptly. She was frowning now in frustration. Her eyebrows were furrowed slightly and she tugged at a strand of her hair- that natural, beautiful hair… It was shining bright under the morgue lights, and Sherlock found himself dumbstruck yet again by her appearance and by her uncanny ability to paralyze the sharp senses that he had relied on his whole life. _He wasn't the smartest person in the room when she was there. _And although he liked it, it was… frustrating.

Maybe she was just as frustrated as he was… Maybe she wasn't used to someone else being her intellectual equal, and maybe that was why she was… interested in him? If she was even interested at all… As always, she was playing him cold, and he had absolutely no idea what she wanted. She was, after all, like him. And he found her frustrating. She refused to let him care or darted the opposite direction when he did. _She refused to let him want her. _

_So this must be what it's like to deal with me all the time… _He'd never thought of it that way, but suddenly he felt sorry for everyone who knew him. Because he knew that she was _far _easier to deal with than he was, and she was much kinder to the people who made efforts to care about her… And Sherlock was worse. Way worse. _Did she feel as frustrated about him and his games?_

_"_How…" he began, but his words drifted off when he looked at her, sitting idly across from him with an innocently passive look on her face. He couldn't ask. Dirty words of her trauma spilling out of such a beautiful mouth seemed like a tragedy- one he was finding it difficult to commit, as desperately as he wanted to. What was it about her that made him feel so… conflicted? Or what was it that made him feel like a loser?

"No clues?" Riley asked. "You don't want to play a game? You don't want me to give you hints so you can figure it out for yourself?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I'm-I'm through with that."

This seemed to shock her. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed in disbelief.

"Sherlock Holmes," she said in a lonely whisper, "the great detective, unable to figure someone out with all the context clues and bits of information whirling around in his head…"

All he could say was, "I think we're past the point of finding these games enjoyable. You're intelligent enough to know how frustrating it gets to not understand something, and I just…" He broke off in frustration. He had never tripped over his own words so much. He'd never felt the chaos of a thousand unanswerable questions burning in his mind, like fireworks that exploded into a kaleidoscope of colors in his mind… The place he'd never been wrong, and the place that not too long ago, had only been filled with thoughts of murder mysteries and puzzles to be solved… Not of women and their baggage…

Her lips were pressed tightly together in a frown. She was… _angry. _

"You have… burnt me," he said. "You have burnt me to the ground."

"You once said that you don't get burnt out," she countered.

"I was wrong," he said. "I was wrong about saying I don't get burnt out."

Sherlock remembered that bit of their first meal together. _What do you do when you're frustrated? When the gears of your mind don't stop turning, and you're burnt out?_

_I don't want them to stop turning. I don't burn out. _How wrong he had been… And how right she was now. He didn't want to ask. He'd never asked anyone _anything _before- he'd never needed to… And he didn't quite know where to start.

"The great Sherlock Holmes was… _wrong!" _Riley exclaimed. She wasn't teasing him- she was mocking him. And he didn't like it.

"Glad to see you're enjoying it so much. It doesn't happen- well, ever, really."

Her words spilled out quicker than he'd ever heard her speak before- as though she regretted them even before they left her lips. "And you once said that you don't want the wheels to stop turning. So you just want me to give you the answers, without asking any questions, so you can still feel like you've riddled it out of me. Like you've beaten me. But tell me, will your wheels still turn once you've figured out the riddle? Will you still care?"

"Do you want me to?" Sherlock blurted out. She shifted in her chair, making no attempt to hide how uncomfortable she was as she'd always done before. Tears were welling in her eyes but she looked angry.

"I thought you'd be the _one_ person to understand," she pressed, her words shaking in a dull roar. "Or the _one_ person who would _want_ to figure out the puzzle of who I am. And I thought you were the only one who _could _figure it out. Or who would want to, and wouldn't just… get frustrated and walk away."

"I have a thousand questions for you and no idea where I should begin."

"Tell me," she said, her voice torn between anger and annoyance, "what is it about all this that makes you so confused? You have all the information. A sexual trauma that made me unwilling to let others touch me or come near me. It's _logical, _Sherlock, use your head. You shouldn't even be perplexed by all this. "

"I want to know _what _happened. _How _it happened. And you're a psychologist, with all the tools to help nurture yourself through the trauma, and yet you remain the same."

Silence. He'd obviously insulted her. He felt guilty, but he was just being honest. And for the first time, it pained him to realize that his brutal honesty- which usually came with no filter, and now was a way of trying to break down her barriers- had hurt someone's feelings.

She was crying now. _Oh God. It was such a tragedy, such a shame, to see her anything but smiling and surrounded by bouncing lights, like she'd been a few hours ago, when he'd admitted to himself that he liked her… _She was silent, but the tears poured out of her eyes freely and down her cheeks, towards her red lips that were open slightly and quivering as though she needed to say something important.

"Sherlock," she begged quietly, interrupting the gears that were turning rapidly in his mind, trying to figure out how to unravel her.

She ran her fingers through her hair and twisted a few strands like she was about to pull them out of her scalp. _God, her hair…_ She was frowning more prominently now, and yet again, Sherlock found himself upset that he'd made that happen. _She really didn't deserve it…_

"_Ask the question," _she said._ "_For once in your life, _ask someone a personal question. _Let them _tell you _rather than waste your time trying to figure it out._"_

Sherlock wanted to scream. _She could win. He surrendered. It was too much to ask of him… Too much for him to do that, to outwardly care. _He just wanted to figure it out- not _ask. _She was right- so right- about him. About _everything._

_You want me to give you the answers, without asking any questions, so you can still feel like you've riddled it out of me… _

_Like you've beaten me… _

_Will your wheels still turn once you've figured out the riddle? _

_Will you still care? _

Had he just been genuinely unintelligent in picking up on her feelings for him? He'd never been good at that with _anyone, _but… with her, he actually paid attention. He actually _tried. _And he'd gotten it all wrong… She _wanted _him to ask- she _wanted _to let him in…

"How did your- trauma- happen?"

He immediately regretted his awkward choice of words. She leaned back in her chair suddenly and exhaled. Her eyes closed for a moment before she opened them… And she was _smiling. SHE WAS SO FRUSTRATING… _Sherlock tugged at the strands of his hair and leaned against the desk, his palm cupping his face in awe. _She. Was. Smiling. _Why was she smiling? Was she… _relieved? _Was she happy that he'd asked? A few stray tears fled from her eyes, down her cheeks.

She waited for a moment before speaking with a dumb, out-of-place smile on her face. "Everyone tiptoes around the question," she said, "or ignores it. So I learned to do the same. It's a taboo… it's not something I'm allowed to talk about because it's too… too _vile, _and… too _grotesque _for other people. They don't want to think about it. They don't want to know that bad things happen because they don't want a reason to look at the world and see the ugly things."

"So you _want _to talk about it?" Sherlock asked.

"I want someone to ask me, rather than pretend it's not a big deal, or rather than trying to coddle me, like I've been doing to myself all these years."

She wiped the tears from her eyes and stood, leaning against the desk casually. She looked like she was shaking, but she was still smiling stupidly… She was a few feet away from him, illuminating under the bright lights of the morgue with her perfect hair and smile and shining green eyes- and in spite of the fact that she was crying, and that someone had just asked her about the most traumatic event in her life, she looked… _Happy. _But she'd yet to answer his question, and he'd plucked up the nerve to ask her outright, so he was damn sure going to make sure she answered. So he piped up, "are you going to answer or-"

"No. Oh God, no." She laughed and added, "what, did you think I would? Oh, no."

"So this was a game," Sherlock said angrily.

_Unbelievable. _She was- so frustrating, and so- _unbelievable… _She'd toyed around with him to see if he'd ask. To see if he _wanted _to ask- if he _wanted _to understand. And he did. But it wasn't something he was ready to admit to her just yet. And there she was, standing two or three feet from him, smiling victoriously because she'd gotten him to admit that he wanted to know her. That he wanted _her. _She'd somehow managed to get him to show his hand before he had a chance to bluff… _Unbelievable._

He'd just been happy that she was smiling, and now he felt the urge to storm out of the room, away from her. She'd played him… She had been playing him this whole time.

"Yes," she admitted. "Of course it was a game."

"I meant it when I said I was tired of the games," he said angrily.

"I think we both win, though. Do you know why I played it?"

Sherlock shook his head and she smiled. "I assume you're not going to tell me."

She shook her head just as he had. It was… Yet again, _attractive, _in a way that was frustrating and mesmerizing and confusing and lovely all at once.

Riley stepped closer to him and his heart practically stopped beating. His mind was still whirling with a thousand questions about her trauma and about her record as a wild teenage. Was she- was she going to _touch _him? She was inching towards him, staring straight through him, and-

"I can see the vein in your neck throbbing," she said, "and I've been counting your pulse the whole time I've sat across from you."

_Oh God. _It was impossible for him to hide it, apparently. His attraction to her was no longer his dirty little secret or the thing that kept him up at night as he wrestled between wanting her and sacrificing his brilliant mind or letting her go and suffering the consequences.

"And?"

"You like this," she said. Your pulse is rapid and it spikes every time I move."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Normally it would."

"But not with me," Sherlock prodded.

The left corner of her mouth twitched like it did when it was trying to suppress a smile. _He was right. She liked him too. _In spite of all the pain in her life, and her failed attempts to hide it around him, she was… willing to like him. _Maybe she would let him in. _

She kept inching slowly towards him, half-slithering like a a short while ago he had been wrestling with the idea that she might not want him. And now he knew she did… _And she wasn't bothered by how attracted he was. _Something in knowing this made him nervous… And something about it made him feel relieved, too.

She was just in front of him now. He could kiss her if he wanted to- and oh, he wanted to very badly- but even though she was being so forward, something was holding him back. Was it too soon to approach her? But she was inching towards him… She was looking up at him expectantly… _God, she was so small_. _So short and thin, and…_ It'd be all too easy to pull her close to him and do it. But he had as little experience with that as he did with dealing with feelings, and he felt overwhelmed, like he wanted to-

"Careful," she said quietly, looking away from his eyes and towards his neck, "your heart might explode if it keeps beating that fast." She was smiling in a teasing but affectionate way.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. But his hands were shaking.

"You might be tired of playing games but you're not tired of me," she said finally, interrupting his thoughts. "Not quite yet."

"I still don't understand because you _won't answer the bloody question," _Sherlock hissed.

Riley allowed him a big, broad smile and stepped away. He exhaled in relief when her back was to him as she approached the door. A pang of agony hit Sherlock's stomach; he didn't want her to leave. _When would he see her again? _She strode towards the door with an authoritative ease. It was… _So attractive. _She was just as pleased with herself over her victory as he would've been if _he _had won.

"Of course not!" she said over her shoulder. "What, you think I'd make it easy for you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock repeated dryly. "When I hear people say that women like to play games and toy with men… Well, I never imagined it to be quite like this."

"I don't think we can really count ourselves among normal people," she said with a gentle laugh. She paused at the doorway now, and he wanted to walk towards her, but his hands were still shaking and he was afraid she'd notice. She probably had, already.

"I thought you used that word with caution," Sherlock said, remembering when she'd said so during her lecture.

She smiled at him as she reached for the door handle.

"Well, whatever it is… We certainly are the opposite, no?"

_She was so right… _He'd been unknowingly waiting all his life to hear someone say that- and he'd never thought that he would want to believe that someone could be like him, or could outdo him, but now that she was admitting it… He liked it. A lot. He smiled at her.

"I suppose we are," he said.

She opened the door to leave. _No. Not yet…_

"Riley," he called out, before he could stop himself. He couldn't let her go. Not yet.

She turned around, her hair whipping around her shoulders as she looked at him. _Good God. _She was still illuminated under the lights of the morgue, with her eyes sparkling.

"What were you going to say earlier?" he asked. "'You broke into my flat and touched me, but I'…"

She hesitated and then said, "liked it," so casually that it almost threw him off balance.

"You did?" he asked in shock.

She nodded and looked ready to bolt out the door. "I… I feel like I lied about what I want, with the way I reacted. Because I… liked it. It just… startled me."

She was afraid again, and about to shut off. Her smile had disappeared. It was obvious that this was the first time she'd said this since the trauma- or maybe ever. But Sherlock was learning; even if he didn't know why she was the way she was, he was learning how to deal with it. He'd back off just enough to make her feel safe, and put forth a bit of effort on his own, so she knew everything she was doing was requited- so she wouldn't feel afraid.

"I lied, too," Sherlock said. "Before, in your apartment. I wouldn't die before I let you cook me dinner."

Riley smiled so widely that Sherlock found himself about to laugh at her innocence. He realized that even in losing- even when she'd played him so easily, and so well, she was right…

They had both won.


	6. Sink and Swim

It had been a few days since Sherlock and Riley had spoken. Since she'd looked like she was about to kiss him. Since she'd revealed that she did, in fact, have feelings for him too… And that she _wanted _him to pursue her… He found himself caught in a reverie that he'd tried so hard to avoid for so long, but now knew he could no longer suppress.

It took Sherlock twice as long to do daily tasks like make breakfast or tie his shoes. Menus appeared as a chaotic list of items he couldn't decipher or choose between; other texts were impossible to read coherently. He got lost on the subway twice because he misread the map. His eyes saw the words yet he couldn't understand them. She interrupted every sentence and every syllable and every letter of everything he knew. Even when she wasn't directly in his life, and even when she wasn't near him or speaking to him… _She was always there, swimming around his mind._

It took him three times longer than normal to analyze data or run experiments. He hadn't spoken to anyone in two days because formulating words and sentences wasn't something he was capable of. A bomb could've gone off and he wouldn't have heard it. The sun could blind him and still all he'd see was her dazzling smile, and her vibrant green eyes, and her perfect, straight hair… Sometimes he missed the nuanced details of a person's appearance, and he couldn't read into who they were. Sometimes he didn't see people at all when he was out in public, and he didn't notice them until he bumped into them or they shoved past him… He wasn't used to this. To… blending in. _He wasn't used to not needing to stimulate his mind with the details of other people, but now he was stimulated by all the details of her._

Was this something other people felt when they liked someone, or when they had feelings for someone? Sherlock had never felt it before. He didn't know if it was normal- then again, he'd spent his entire life with constant reminders that he _wasn't _normal, so this shouldn't be surprising. She was erasing the way his mind worked, making it work only to think of her now… And he was still trying to figure out if he liked this part of their relationship.

_Relationship. _Could he call it that? Was that word reserved only for people who were… _in _a relationship? He didn't know if he wanted the gears of his mind to turn elsewhere- to turn for _her… _They were the only thing that made him special…

Lately he couldn't read. He couldn't tie his shoes properly. He played the violin constantly and didn't sleep. He checked his phone desperately in hopes that she'd reach out to him, and much to his disappoint the only call he'd received was from Lestrade, urging him to come investigate another suspicious crime scene.

Sherlock arrived and was eager to distract himself from the chaos that Riley seemed to cause in his mind. When he arrived, he was ushered through the living room, where an array of snacks and half-eaten candies littered the table and worn-in blankets were sprawled on the couch. The house was expensive enough, but the clutter made it less inviting and more like the abused abode of a bratty teenager. A bookshelf lined with young adult novels of paranormal romantic persuasion was off to the far corner, next to a small and forgotten box of toys meant for a toddler. There was hardly anything in this room to suggest that adults lived there, aside from expensive wine glasses and bottles of alcohol in the glass liquor cabinet. It was locked. A bratty, partying teenager _definitely _lived here if the adults felt the need to lock their liquor away from her. Sherlock moved towards the kitchen, where several members of the homicide team were busy at work photographing and documenting all the evidence at the scene.

"Apparent suicide of a fifteen-year-old girl," an officer explained upon Sherlock's entrance. "Chugged a bottle of bleach, from what we can tell by the scarring in her throat and initial chemical tests on the vomit. Neighbor came to check on her and found this mess here."

"And _why_ was I called?" Sherlock asked.

"He said '_apparent' _suicide. The bottle of bleach is missing," Donovan's voice piped up behind him. "Can't find it in the trash or anywhere in the house. Just like the last suicide case, it's fishy. Go on, freak, do your thing." She paused and then added, "where's your loyal sidekick? Or the new girl?"

As for Watson, he was preoccupied- on a _lunch date, _to no surprise. But Sherlock had to stop himself from smiling at the mention of Riley. _What was she doing right now? _She wasn't teaching; Sherlock still remembered her schedule from the first time he'd looked it up to visit her class. Again, he found himself hiding his smile at the memory of this encounter. Sherlock had no idea where Riley was. Would she be interested in the crime scene again? Sherlock hadn't thought to call her- last time she'd just invited herself because they had been together when he got the call. Should he use this as an excuse to do so? Would that be… strange? It was certainly very tempting. Then again, everything about her was… For now, though, he had to focus on the task at hand- or try his hardest to.

First of all, anyone who chugged a bottle of bleach wouldn't have the stomach or willpower to throw it out. They'd end up dropping it nearby once the toxic bleach started to take hold and they started thrashing as their body rejected the chemicals. Sherlock stepped forward, closer to the body. The whole room reeked of the vomit that the girl was covered in; a nearby medical technician handed him a mask to cover his mouth, and Sherlock took it quickly. The young victim, who wore far too much makeup and far too little clothing for winter time in a crop top and tight jeans, was slumped at a seat by the kitchen table, vomit spewed out over her and the floor victim was facing a small window that looked out at a pool, which was covered for the winter.

If this girl had swallowed the bleach, she wouldn't be sitting in the chair… No, she'd be on the floor, writhing in pain and in a pool of her own vomit… It would be much messier. She would've been in pain. She would have suffered. But the way that she was sitting in the chair, as though she'd died calmly… Had she taken something else? No, she couldn't have; none of the kitchen ingredients were out of place, probably like her mother kept them, and she didn't have anything toxic enough to mix to a lethal agent.

"Normally I'd suggest that she could have died from a mixture of household agents," Sherlock said, "because anyone with half of a brain and access to the internet could learn how to do so, but judging by her age, overall appearance, and the alarming amount of teenage paranormal romance novels on her bookshelf, I don't think she's capable.

"And look more closely at her wrists and ankles," Sherlock said. "There are small etches from a rope or some sort of restraint. And you see the spot on her pants covered in the mess? There's a thin line that's untouched- meaning a rope was covering the ankle and her pants, and then the rope was removed, leaving that one small line spotless. Someone tied her here and poured it down her throat. She writhed for a while as the killer watched and then untied her to make it look like an accident."

"Oy, I knew her," a voice piped up suddenly. Sherlock turned to face the man, as did several others. A police officer stepped out from the corner, looking grim. "Well, not personally- I just recognized her face, and now I remember why. A few years ago she was babysitting her little brother but left him alone by the pool for a few hours' 'cus she had her boyfriend over. Turns out the little kid drowned, and there was a huge fuss over what she should be charged with for her negligence- or if she should even be charged at all. It was a big deal. All over the papers and stuff for months."

Suddenly, Sherlock had a hunch- could this be the missing piece? The reason for a murderer to cover his work as suicides? This case was similar to the first in that it was obviously not a suicide, though it was faked to look like one… Sherlock whipped around, staring out the window at the pool, thinking.

"Does anyone have any word on the parents' arrival time?" an officer said. "We want to try and have the mess out of here before they get home. Awful thing for a parent to see."

"They're on a flight home from their holiday at some Caribbean island," another officer said. "Left their daughter here for a week. Perfect time to off herself."

"Or for someone to murder her," Donovan suggested.

"Does anyone know if the hanging victim had any sort of trauma in her life?" Sherlock interrupted, eager to find out more information that could possibly confirm that his theory was true. "Anything that would drive her to commit suicide at this point in time?"

"We did preliminary interviews," an officer who was on her case said, "and people talked about how she'd been with some messed-up boyfriend for a while and broke up with him two years prior. We wanted him as a suspect but he moved to the States after their falling out, so he checked out."

"And was their relationship publicized in the newspapers? Online? Anywhere?"

The officer shrugged; he had no answers. Sherlock snapped his fingers and pointed to a tiny girl in the corner of the room- _she was just as small as Riley, but not nearly as attractive, and… No, Sherlock, focus._

_"_You," Sherlock barked at her. "I want you to look up these victims and see if their cases were publicized in the papers, online, on television- anywhere that someone ordinary could have public access to it."

"Me?" the girl squeaked nervously.

"Am I talking to the _wind_?" Sherlock said impatiently. "_Yes, you. _Since you're just standing there idly, you might as well make yourself useful. And judging by the clipboard you're clutching so eagerly, you're desperate to learn on your first day here, am I wrong?"

"Second day," she said quietly. Her hands were trembling.

"Yes, alright," Sherlock said in annoyance, "well, go do some research. I need to know just how publicized both these cases were."

"I don't have a computer, or any way to-"

"You have a smart phone. It's sticking out of your front pants pocket, which means you cling to it for dear life- probably in hopes that someone you went on a few dates with will call, but maybe because you have _friends _or something- so I know you know how to use your phone resourcefully. Search their names in public databases. Whatever you need to do, just do it."

The girl rushed out of the room to go somewhere quiet so she could do what Sherlock asked. Sherlock looked back at the body. The only way this made sense was if the killer chose these victims for a reason; yes, they were both female, but that couldn't be it… and it was too coincidental for them to both have suffered such a severe trauma and then be set up with a "suicide"…

"So let me get this straight," Donovan said. "You think that these two suicide-but-actually-homicide cases are connected, but you're not sure _how _they're connected other than the fact that the victim would have an actual _reason _to commit suicide, even though they were murdered?"

"That's a very poorly-worded way to put it and I think most people in the room would be confused, but-"

"And you have no concrete evidence to support these two cases being connected other than a hunch?"

"They're too similar _not _to be related," Sherlock said. "This killer is experienced but starting to get clumsy like they always do. I'd say that he's killed a lot and gotten away with it until now- these two aren't the first. Why make mistakes now? Because he's running out of different ways to kill these people without drawing attention to the fact that it's a homicide, and not a suicide. He wants to avoid getting caught- faking a suicide in the same way over and over would make it obvious that it wasn't a suicide. He's not doing this for attention or glory, it's for… some other purpose…"

"That's not much for us to work with," Donovan said tightly.

She was frowning in disapproval. There was something missing… This killer was very neat and experienced, perhaps with medical knowledge… He was definitely strong- strong enough to overpower these women, and potentially countless others… Maybe he had trouble with what he was doing; maybe he didn't like it… Maybe he only killed these victims for a specific moral purpose- as skewed as it was- and still struggled with the idea that he was taking a life, and thus started to get messier and messier with each crime… He wasn't a typical killer, oh no… There was something about this killer that Sherlock didn't quite understand, probably because he was missing too much information… Sherlock needed something more- more clues, from different crime scenes, from different places with different victims… He felt like he was failing and it frustrated him. But he would never admit it, of course.

"You haven't given me much to go off of," Sherlock said.

Sherlock smiled suddenly- he had an idea. An idea that made him nervous and excited all at once.

"Let me call someone," he said, "I can see if she knows-"

"You have _friends _that are _women?_" Donovan said.

"You have friends _at all?_" Anderson called out from a nearby room. Donovan smirked.

"Ah, chiming in together like old friends," Sherlock said. "Well, actually, judging by the bite mark with a radius and teeth pattern alarmingly similar to Anderson's mouth- you know, jagged upper central incisors, missing lower second premolar- you two are… _awfully _friendly these days." He smiled and Donovan tugged at her blouse, which just barely hid half of the conspicuous bite mark and bruise. "That blouse hardly covers it, Donovan, at least _try _to make it more difficult for me to insult you next time. Or at least wait until _after _work to let him jump your bones- especially in such an… _aggressive _way- so you don't risk being called to a crime scene and embarrassed about your apparently on-going affair."

Before she could retaliate, Sherlock whipped out his phone and left the room. He made his way out of the living room before a small, insignificant voice called out behind him.

"Sir?"

He turned to see the girl he'd barked orders at before. He smiled. _Sir. _She was definitely only on the job for two days- everyone else either ignored him or rolled their eyes when he addressed them. "What've you got?"

"I have the information you wanted," the girl piped up. "The victim whose crime scene you investigated hit and killed a little boy with her car a few years ago. It was in a few local papers, mostly because she got off easy for the crime and the little kid's parents were outraged by it, and-"

"That'll do," Sherlock said, "Excellent. Add that to the boyfriend trauma, it seems like she's a perfect candidate…"

Sherlock drifted off as he looked down at this new girl. She was still clutching her clipboard nervously. Small notes on the two victims were scribbled all over the pages. She looked torn between crying and running away form the crime scene; Sherlock looked in her eyes suddenly… _They were green… _Not as lively as Riley's eyes, but a softer, gentler green- the type of green that hadn't been pushed like Sherlock had just pushed her. And suddenly he felt… _Guilty? Sorry? _

He didn't know how he felt- he just knew that he wanted to apologize, but instead he offered, "good work."

She smiled suddenly- a crooked, nervous smile. He felt tempted to smile back at the young girl's innocence and eagerness to do her job well, but he stopped himself and focused on the task at hand.

"Just look up all the suicides cases within the last few weeks that are connected to highly publicized cases in the media," Sherlock said. "Anything- death of a family member, accidents… any sort of trauma. Let me know when that's all sorted out."

The girl scurried off nervously to do what she'd been asked. Sherlock hailed a taxi and luckily got one a few seconds later. Then he raised his phone again and skimmed through his contact books, looking for a specific number... He knew the number by heart already- he knew everyone on his brief contact list's number due to his memory, but hers sunk in especially hard, and he sometimes found himself not wishing to call her or reach out to her, but repeating her phone number in his head time and time again as though beckoning himself to pick up the phone and dial…

It rang twice. Sherlock prayed that it didn't go to voicemail. _What would he say if it did? Well… what would he say if it didn't? Would it be easier to talk to her when he wasn't distracted by… looking at her? _He suddenly changed his mind and wanted the call to ring out, so he didn't have to talk to her. He hated calling. Normally he just texted, but this was the type of conversation that would be tedious. He was also nervous to talk to her- as always- and wasn't sure that she would even want to, even though just days ago she-

"Hey, Sherlock."

He breathed out in relief and closed his eyes for a moment. She sounded calm and collected- the antithesis of how he felt.

"I have a couple of questions for you," he said eagerly. He wanted to laugh at those words- what a double-edged sword they were. He wanted to ask her about this crime scene, but he also had so many questions about her and her life, too… _Oh, if only she knew what she did to his mind… _

"About a crime scene," he added, not wanting to seem too forward yet. He didn't want to risk her hanging up on him and never answering his calls or texts again.

"Alright, shoot."

He explained the crime scene to her and made sure to include every detail, from the way the victim's body and the scene obviously dictated that this was a murder, to his hunches about the media coverage and so on. He also included his newly found information about the last case, and about the drowning victim. Riley remained silent as he spoke; when he finished, he asked, "I just wanted some analysis on the type of person who'd commit crimes like this. It's only two crimes so far, but it's obviously a very specific type of serial killer and I think there might be other cases out there like this one that have fallen unnoticed, as the attention paid to suicides isn't normally like this."

"Do you know any other victims with similar cases? Two could just be a coincidence, as strange of a case as it is. Three means-"

"I know, I know. Three means it's a serial killer. No, I don't have any other cases, but I've told the police to dig up any suicide cases in the last few weeks of people who were involved with the media. If my idea's correct- and I just _know_ it is- he should be findings his victims through the reported tragedies in the papers."

"Hmm. Well, yes, he obviously follows the papers. But these traumas are from a few years ago, from what you've told me… so he's starting from the past rather than going after people who are in the news now, so he doesn't attract too much attention. He's smart about it- he slipped up, yes, but he still has _some _inkling of what he's doing… And from the two cases we have so far, he's obviously not trying to get caught. He's not doing this for glory, or to bait us into catching him… He's genuinely making mistakes, and-"

Sherlock said impatiently, "I know this already. What else?"

She was silent for a moment. Sherlock realized that his impatience was probably insulting her and he felt… _Bad. _It was a new feeling to him. He'd have to make a conscious effort to be more polite around her, if he wanted her to stay around…

"He's someone who experienced a trauma himself," she said slowly. "It's obvious that he targets these victims for a reason- I'd guess it's probably because he was once a victim, too. He could be killing them out of… I don't know, some sort of misplaced aid, to end their suffering the only way he thinks possible. In death."

"But if he was so traumatized by whatever happened in his life, why wouldn't he just kill himself? Why do it to others?"

She sounded frustrated. "I don't know. Maybe he thinks it's a sin or something. He might be overly aggressive, and this may be a way for him to channel both the trauma and the aggression or anger that it caused- he might… _Enjoy _killing, but not just for killing's sake? He might have a skewed sense of justice- look, he's obviously unbalanced, but I can't really tell you much else unless I actually _meet _him…"

Sherlock contemplated this, staring blankly out the window of the cab. He found himself smiling at the excited frustration in her voice; she sounded a lot like him when he spoke of a crime scene. _It was nice to know someone who was equally as intrigued by a good mystery like this. _ Everyone else would call him a freak, or misunderstand; but not Riley. The thrill of it… she understood. _Which was part of why he liked her. _

Her analysis was useful, but it gave him absolutely no clue as to where to start looking for someone who fit the criteria. He'd been thinking along the same lines of her ideas, anyway… And once again, Sherlock found himself reminded that _Riley really was just like him. _He kept smiling stupidly. He'd mull all this information over and hopefully deduce something that would help push the case along and move him closer to finding the killer.

"Thank you," he said quietly. It was a phrase he seldom used. He couldn't remember the last time he'd said it to anyone, let alone genuinely meant it.

"A few days ago you admitted you were wrong, and now you're saying thank you? What's gotten into you, Mr. Holmes?"

_You. You have. _The way she said his name… _Mr. Holmes… _a chill ran down his spine and he wanted her to say it again and again…He couldn't share any of this with her, of course, because then she'd run away. It was too forward. He was learning that he needed to take baby steps.

She was silent for a few seconds. Before he could respond to her previous comment, she asked, "did you _really _call me because you wanted advice on this case? I think you could've figured this all out on your own."

Try as he might to take things slowly, something about her made him want to plunge right in. He was aching for it, even though he knew it wasn't a good idea. He just wanted to swim… But even as inviting as she was, something in her made him feel like he was drowning. Something in her _must _have been drowning, too…

He was desperate to have her cook dinner for him. To drink with him. To tell him what was wrong. _To tell him how to fix it, so he could- _

"I wanted to invite you over for Christmas Eve at my place," Sherlock blurted out suddenly.

_Oh God. _Surely this would make her run away in fear. Asking her over for a holiday get-together? It wasn't something he did- it was something _couples _did, or people who _knew how to date _did. Watson had suggested it, but Sherlock had blatantly told him it would never happen. And suddenly, it was.

On the other end of the phone, Riley was silent again for a few seconds, but Sherlock was sure that she was probably scared now. This was a big step- for _both _of them- and like an idiot, he'd said it so casually, so… _stupidly, _and he instantly regretted asking in that way, and asking it at all…

"It's really casual," he tried to explain with a tone of forced calm, "just me, Watson, our landlady Mrs. Hudson, one or two people from the hospital that we work with, maybe… Watson will probably have a date, because, well, let's face it, he's Watson-"

Sherlock cut himself off. _Date. _He shouldn't have mentioned that word within the same time span of this conversation- he shouldn't mention that word in front of her _period, _because it made her nervous, which in turn made _him _nervous… He tried to remind himself that just a few days ago, she'd practically invited him over to cook him dinner; so maybe she would be okay with this… But still...

"What time should I come over?"

Sherlock sighed in relief- so loudly, in fact, that he knew she probably heard it on the other end. But even with the embarrassment of this conversation he couldn't help but smile.

"I don't know," he said, suddenly realizing that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Most people experienced this as an adolescent- Sherlock had never known the pleasure and pain of that then, but he was certainly feeling it now.

"Alright," she said with a calm and gentle laugh, "I'll try to come around seven. I'll see you then."

"Okay," Sherlock said stupidly. "I'll see you then."

And she hung up the phone without another word.

Sherlock was torn between jumping in delight or jumping off a building in fear. He didn't know how to do this. Was it a date? Was he expected to… woo her? _He really wanted to, but he had no idea where to start. _What did he wear? Was he supposed to dress up and look nice, like he was making an effort for her, or was he supposed to play it casual, so that she didn't get scared and bolt the other direction? So that he didn't seem too forward?

As the cab zoomed off towards his flat, Sherlock found himself feeling like he'd made a huge mistake. A very, very huge mistake. He wasn't ready for this… _And he doubted she was, either. _He had to clean his flat now, and make it presentable. He had to _Oh God. What was he supposed to get her for a present? _He couldn't remember the last time he'd bought a present that wasn't to fulfill some sort of social requirement. In fact, he didn't think he ever cared about someone so much that he _wanted _to buy them a gift…

Would there be the picturesque, cheesy mistletoe? Would he be expected to kiss her under it- would _she _expect him to kiss her at all? He thought about the last … She must want to… _Why couldn't she make the first move? Why did he have to do it?_

He could do crime scenes and serial killers. He could riddle out every aspect of a person's personal based on their appearance at a first glance. But women… _They were so frustrating. _

He was sinking. Drowning, even. He tried to calm himself down, but found it impossible to do so. _No. He'd figure it out. He always figured everything out. _That's what he kept telling himself, but somehow it didn't help. He still felt like he was sinking… Drowning…

But somehow, he didn't mind it.


	7. Noise and Silence

_Note: Merry Christmas, to those of you who celebrate it, and happy holidays to you all! Ever since I started planning this whole story arc, I've been very excited to write this chapter… It was more difficult than I thought it would be. So here is a very very very long holiday gift to all of you. Sorry it took so long to post. -FLB_

221B Baker Street was decorated to reflect the the season of Christmas. Mrs. Hudson had trimmed the doorways with garland, and she and Watson had decorated a small tree in the flat with twinkling lights and sparkling ornaments. Poinsettias and other festive flowers nestled atop the fireplace and the dining area table. More lights hung from the windows and mistletoe hung in the doorway, though Sherlock was sure that it would be of no use. _Unless- No… _He tried to push out the possibility of meeting Riley underneath it, because the despair of _not _meeting Riley under it was too much to consider… Especially since he'd already gotten so close the last time they'd seen one another only to be disappointed… _It was just a cheesy, stupid holiday tradition. Only simple-minded people gave into this poor excuse to get close to one another. He wouldn't do the same…_

Aside from the issue of the expectant mistletoe, and the stress that it caused Sherlock, the flat looked immaculate and beautifully decorated. And even though Sherlock had refused to participate in the setup over the last few days, he found himself oddly accepting of it all. The smell of poinsettias and pine needles didn't seem to bother him… his mind was heavily preoccupied with something else.

Sherlock had spent all day mulling over what to wear. A suit? He hardly wore anything else and she probably knew that. But somehow it felt… overdone. He wanted to impress her without seeming like he was trying to; he knew she'd run the other way if he did. _And yet she'd been so inviting recently… _God, it as all so frustrating, even when he was mad about her, and learning to deal with her worries and insecurities…

He thought of how to act when Riley arrived… And that made him anxious yet again, though he refused to admit or show it, so he went back to worrying about what to wear because it was somehow easier. After much thought he settled on the suit he'd worn the first night they had met, but he added a tie for a bit of extra effort. _Maybe she would appreciate this subtle gesture._ The only tie he owned was thin and black, and Sherlock battled over whether or not he thought that it was too much… But he kept it on anyway. After he was dressed, Sherlock took the full-length mirror at the corner of his room and set it against the dresser, to check his appearance. He seldom used the mirror, but he felt it was necessary now. He was too nervous not to check and recheck every detail and decision that he was making.

He glanced at the neatly wrapped present and the small bouquet of flowers resting on his dresser. The gift was something stupid that he'd seen at a bookstore- some sort of adult party game. He knew exactly what he was going to say when he handed it to her; he'd planned it for days, ever since he bought the gift, and he even contemplated rehearsing it aloud at the mirror. _"It's just a game. Stupid, really. You pick a card and it gives you some personal topic and you're supposed to say 'I've never done such and such' in relation to that topic, and anyone who's done it has to take a token or something. I don't know, the rules are in there. I figured it might be a change of pace from our… usual games."_ He'd laugh and prayed that she did, too, but just thinking about it made him nervous, so he glanced away from the gift. No, he probably wouldn't give it to her- it was too stupid… Too childish… She'd probably hate it…

The flowers would suffice. They were her favorite- purple carnations- and he'd bought a bouquet that straddled between being too skimpy and too elaborate for his… _Oh God. What was she to him? _A friend? _No… She was more than that now..._

Was she… someone he was dating? _No… _They hadn't been on any dates- well, one, but it was a bet and a set-up… From what little he knew about the dating world, betting a friend that you could get a woman to hate you so much that she left dinner within ten minutes wasn't exactly a "date."

How would he explain her to other people? How would he introduce her? To Watson or Mrs. Hudson…Were these things that normal people had to worry about? Sherlock was reminded for the thousandth time that c_aring was not an advantage… Relationships were overbearing… It made things too complicated… _

And then he looked at the flowers and the small wrapped gift. And he imagined her smiling- hopefully she would- as she opened her presents… She'd probably call him an idiot, like she had the first time they had dined together… _You're an idiot… This game is stupid..._

_Nobody had ever called him an idiot before… _

And suddenly his thoughts about the disadvantages of caring disappeared when he envisioned her smiling in the same room as him, close enough to touch, but not quite willing to let him do so. Not yet.

Sherlock tightened his tie a bit and tugged at the bottom of his suit. He looked… Well, hopefully appealing enough for Riley's taste. _Did she find him attractive? _He'd never considered this angle of their… relationship… before. His hair was a mess as always, but he had no idea how to fix it. He'd never cared until now. Once he finished checking himself over in the mirror, he heaved in a great sigh and opened the door to the living area.

"You're wearing a tie," Watson said suddenly, as soon as Sherlock entered the living area. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. He regretted his decision to wear it now and tugged at the tie to loosen it a bit.

"Yes," Sherlock said plainly, stifling his nerves, "and I see you combed your hair."

"You should do the same, dear," a voice called from the doorway. Sherlock looked to see Mrs. Hudson, struggling to hold a large tray of various cookies and desserts. Sherlock touched hair nervously, trying to smooth it down and tame it. Watson looked over at her as well before the two men returned their gaze to one another.

Watson smiled faintly as he tidied up the coffee table. "I actually like this one a lot," he admitted. "Her name's Candice. She's… I dunno, I shudder to say 'different,' but we get along really well. Met her at a coffee shop and that was that."

Was it that easy for Watson to admit that he had feelings for someone? The words spilled out with no remorse, no terseness, not even the slightest inkling of doubt or shame… _Could Sherlock ever admit to the same? _

He rolled his eyes and turned to busy himself with the books stacked on the windowsill. It was dark out- almost time for guests to start arriving- and Sherlock felt a pang of anxiety in his stomach, the type of anxiety he'd previously only felt when a case went unsolved or when he had guessed something wrong.

"And who did you invite that you're so dressed up for? Riley?"

Sherlock turned abruptly. "Did she tell you she was coming? How do you know? How-"

"Relax," Watson said with a laugh. "She called me to ask what time to come over. Apparently you have no idea how to host guests or invite people over. Not much of a shocker, really. She had no clue where we lived, what time to come, or what she should bring…"

"Riley? Who?" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen. Sherlock ignored her. Watson opened his mouth- probably to tease Sherlock- but upon seeing Sherlock's deathly glare, he decided not to speak.

Sherlock moved towards the fireplace, where stockings were hung underneath a particularly thick strand of garland. Candles lit the mantle. A picture of Sherlock, Watson and Mrs. Hudson- the only picture of the three that Sherlock had willingly taken- was at the center, amidst two vases of poinsettias. Sherlock straightened it.

"She's good for you, y'know," Watson said. "She's smart enough to understand you and tough enough to not put up with your-"

"It's nothing," Sherlock said. "You know her better than I do. It's just- stimulating conversation, because she's not an idiot like everyone else-"

"Yeah, I bet you find her 'stimulating,' all right."

"Really, who are you-" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen, but Sherlock leaned over so that he was visible in the doorway; she saw his glare- one that resembled a child threatening to start a fight on the playground- and stopped talking. She mimed to zip her lips shut and winked at him.

"What a lovely name," she added as she arranged cookies and other treats on a small silver tray. "Riley. Lovely, really…"

Watson grinned widely at Sherlock. They weren't going to let him off easy. He'd tried so hard to avoid this… And now it was Watson's one chance to really annoy Sherlock, and he knew it. He was going to take advantage of it.

_This was going to be a complete disaster. _Sherlock could feel it in his bones. And as much as he wanted to see Riley- he always did- he completely regretted inviting her over now...

"I've never known you to admit your feelings, let alone _have_ them," Watson started, "but I know you well enough to know that when you _do _feel something, you'll stop at nothing to deny it."

"Perhaps I'm annoyed that you're making something out of nothing."

"Bullshit," Watson said. "You don't have to be such a pain in the ass."

"Well you don't have to be such a pain in the ass about it, either," Sherlock responded curtly.

Watson sighed.

"Well, all right, don't offer to help," Mrs. Hudson called out mildly. "I've only been standing here for ten minutes, cooking and cleaning for you two. Not your housekeeper… _Not _your housekeeper..."

Watson sprung up to help her; Sherlock remained in the living room still, loosening his tie again and fiddling with the buttons in his suit jacket. _Your date. _He shuddered. Was that what he would call tonight? Was it really a date? He checked the nearby clock: it was quarter to seven, which meant Riley would be arriving soon…

Sherlock heard footsteps and looked towards the doorway. An unfamiliar-looking woman knocked softly on the already-open door, waiting to be invited in. She stood idly under the mistletoe. She smiled politely at Sherlock; she wore no makeup, had straight hair… _Like someone else he knew… _and she wore a modest grey dress and red sweater. Nothing in her ensemble tried to overcompensate for her overall average appearance, unlike most women Sherlock had observed while walking on the streets or out to dinner… And not like most women that Sherlock went out with, at least.

He found himself questioning why Watson was dating this woman, as she was so unlike the typical good-looking, scandalously-dressed women that he had always been with. Perhaps she truly was "different" after all .

She came bearing no gifts. She was polished, friendly-looking, and her overall appearance gave Sherlock no hints or no secrets to work with. There was nothing to dissect; she was… well, average. Before he could interrogate her further with his eyes, Watson came bounding out of the kitchen. Sherlock watched as a smile spread involuntarily and embraced the woman. _Did he look like that when he was around Riley? _

The pair kissed under the mistletoe; Sherlock turned around, rolling his eyes again. When he turned to face them after a moment, they were still kissing, both of them smiling and holding each other close. Mrs. Hudson was watching from the kitchen, her hands clasped in a sort of motherly adoration, smiling stupidly. Sherlock coughed loudly and they split up. The woman- Candice- looked embarrassed, but Watson kept his arm around her for protection or comfort.

She entered the room and extended a hand to Mrs. Hudson, who clasped her hand fondly and shoot it delicately.

"Candice," the woman introduced. "It's so nice to meet you. John talks about you all the time."

Mrs. Hudson blushed. She obviously had no idea that Candice was lying. Sherlock could tell from the overly excited and high-pitched tone of her voice, which peaked as she told the lie. He could also tell from the overly eager-to-please smile on her face. He opened his mouth to protest- _no, you're lying- _but stopped himself. He felt… guilty. Bad. Like it wouldn't be right to say this- like it might… Upset her, or John, and even Mrs. Hudson. Why did he feel this way? He'd never felt so… compassionate. He'd never cared before. What had done this to him? Of course, he knew it was Riley, but… how? Did his compassion and feelings for her seep over into his feelings for everyone else as well? _Caring was not an advantage… caring… was not… an advantage… _

_Yet it felt good, and it certainly made less people in the room hate him..._

_"… _And John's told me a bit about you as well," Candice said. Sherlock snapped into focus, realizing Candice had been speaking to him as he drifted off, thinking about Riley as usual. Her hand was extended, ready to shake. Sherlock extended his hand politely.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said mildly. He shook her hand and she pulled it away after a moment as John ushered her to take a seat at the couch.

He sat down next to her, putting his arm around her. Mrs. Hudson took the tray of desserts and placed it at the center of the table; Sherlock took one, needing to distract

"What time are our reservations?" Candice asked. Her voice was high-pitched but soft and barely audible. Sherlock found it annoying.

"Eight," Watson said. "It's just around the corner so we have some time. I'm glad you came over beforehand."

He kissed her on the cheek and she blushed. Her smile was authentic and endearing; Sherlock didn't doubt that she was just as smitten with Watson as he was with her.

"Where are you going?" Mrs. Hudson asked. She took a seat on one of the armchairs near Sherlock. He sat down as well.

"We're going out to this restaurant around the corner," Watson explained. "For a get-together with some friends."

"How lovely," Mrs. Hudson said excitedly.

"Yeah, Sherlock will have the whole place to himself for the night," Watson said. He smirked, obviously insinuating that he'd have time to… With Riley… _Oh God._ Candice smiled awkwardly, not understanding the joke. Mrs. Hudson winked at Sherlock again.

Sherlock tugged at his tie. He didn't anticipate that this would happen- he wasn't expecting to be alone with Riley… _Would she be offended and think that he did it on purpose, and that he lied to her about coming over for a get-together? Would she think he was just trying to get her alone? _The room felt hot and Sherlock moved to the window, cracking it slightly. Watson was watching him with intrigue. Mrs. Hudson and Candice looked confused.

Watson also must not've known about Riley's trauma either; otherwise, he wouldn't have made a joke about it. So how many people knew about it? Or did she really not tell _anyone, _except the people who figured it out for themselves like he had?

There was a soft knock on the door and it caught everyone off guard. Sherlock found himself smiling involuntarily...

Riley stood hesitantly in the doorway, clutching a small bag. She was standing under the mistletoe… Sherlock's gaze shifted from Riley, to the the hanging decoration, and back to Riley again. She'd arrived later than he expected, but she looked… _Oh God…_

Her hair was straight and her makeup was subtle but noticeable. He'd yet to see her with makeup, and _God… _She didn't need it to make herself look better, but it certainly didn't hurt, especially when she was wearing a shade of dark red lipstick that drew attention to her mouth… _Her beautiful mouth… The mouth Sherlock wanted to crash into…_

He shook his head slightly to focus, but found himself looking her up and down as she stood in the doorway. She wore a sleek black sequin dress that hugged her in all the right places, but wasn't too tight or too revealing. It was short-sleeved, with a slight dip in the neckline, but it didn't reveal too much- _just enough to drive Sherlock crazy… _She also wore black high heels that made her thin legs look toned and muscular. A black belt cinched at her waist, making her look like a sparkling, perfect hourglass- a ticking time bomb that would explode if someone tried to touch her, though Sherlock found it impossible not to want to do this because, well, she looked… _God, she looked so good… _

_"_I'm so sorry I'm a bit late," Riley said warmly, "one of my students wanted to speak with me about a paper before the end of the semester- on Christmas Eve, of course, of all times…"

She walked into the room, towards the living area. When Sherlock was able to snap back into focus after an extended moment of staring- a moment that wasn't quite as long as he'd like- he saw Riley and Watson engaged in a warm embrace. Everyone in the room stood to greet her; Sherlock stood noisily and automatically, with a sense of purpose, though he felt stupid for doing so. He found himself surprised that she was embracing Watson so warmly, as he always did when she made physical contact. Because he still noticed the small shift in her step whenever someone touched her against her will, or the quick and barely noticeable glance to the floor whenever someone made a suggestive comment… Maybe it was just okay when she initiated an embrace, or a touch. This wasn't the first time that this happened- he remembered her at the crime scene, too. He made a mental note of this; he would make sure to follow the same pattern of behavior, because the thought of her shifting away from him was almost unbearable.

She then proceeded to shake Candice's hand and tell her it was "lovely to meet her." Sherlock didn't understand this phrase. She knew nothing about Candice- how could Riley know whether or not she was lovely? If it were anyone else saying this, Sherlock would discredit this person immediately as a fool. But it was Riley, and she was like him, but she was also… polite. So he could make an exception for her.

Riley then approached Mrs. Hudson and gave her an equally enthusiastic handshake; Mrs. Hudson looked from Riley, to Sherlock, and then back to Riley, much like his gaze before… She was beaming as Riley told her it was also lovely to meet her as well.

"What a catch!" Mrs. Hudson said breathlessly, to no one in particular. Riley blushed and smiled; Watson and Candice were both smiling as well, and Sherlock realized that everyone was looking at him. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

Riley finally approached Sherlock. _What was she going to do? Should he meet her halfway? Should he… initiate a hug? Kiss her on the cheek? Kiss her on the- oh God, no. _As much as he wanted to, he knew that kissing her, even if only on the cheek, was probably on the list of things that would drive her away. He was learning- and he was selfish. He didn't want all these people around when he kissed her for the first time, if he ever got that close…

She was close to him now, closer than the last time… He saw the small scar on her cheek. He'd almost forgotten that it was there; the last time he'd been close enough to see it was at dinner, or at the morgue, but he'd been preoccupied by conversation.

Before Sherlock had a chance to react, her arms were around him, resting peacefully around his neck… Her head rested at his shoulder, the top of his head resting just under his chin because even in heels, she was much shorter than he was…

He placed a hand around her waist gently, as though she'd break at his touch. They hugged for the swiftest of a moment and then she was pulling away from his chest and their embrace, whispering "merry Christmas, Sherlock" into his chest as though it was some sort of great secret for only the two of them to hear. And then she was a few feet away from him, rummaging through the bag of presents she had brought.

Sherlock felt numb but was trying so hard to hide it. Watson was smiling at him eagerly. Mrs. Hudson had her hands clasped together with a motherly smile plastered on her face, just as she had when Candice and Watson had kissed under the mistletoe. Had Sherlock failed to hide his affections? Was it obvious to her and everyone else? He tugged at his tie and sat back down nervously.

Riley handed Mrs. Hudson, who was closest, a small wrapped box. The paper was striped with red and white, like a candy cane. It was wrapped neatly with a small, shining bow on top. _God, was she skilled at everything? She was even artistic, and had enough social conscientiousness to buy gifts for everyone at the party… _Sherlock found himself torn between annoyance at his own inadequacy compared to her- something he'd never felt before- and his dire attraction to her.

Mrs. Hudson grinned up at Riley and kissed her on the cheek as she opened the small gift. It was a small box of what looked to be an exotic flavor of tea. Mrs. Hudson squealed and Riley smiled at her.

"Oh, you didn't have to get me a gift!" she said. "But thank you so much, dear, it's lovely!"

Mrs. Hudson looked over at Sherlock expectantly as Riley moved towards Watson and Candice. Sherlock looked away from her and rolled his eyes; Mrs. Hudson looked as though she was about to make a fuss or some annoying comment, and Sherlock was past the point in trying to stop her. She was obviously too smitten with Riley already to help herself… _But then again, he couldn't blame her. _

"Oh!" an annoying voice squealed suddenly. "This is lovely! You didn't have to- I didn't expect-"

"Oh, please, I'm just glad you enjoy it," Riley said sheepishly. Sherlock turned his attention over to the couch where Candice and Watson were snuggled up. Candice was clutching a small golden bracelet. She slipped it on her wrist excitedly and extended her arm for Riley and Watson to admire it.

_How did she know how to- to do all this? _To be social, and polite, and… friendly? Her mind worked like his. She was even _more _guarded than he was overall, because of her history- _something that was still a mystery to him… _

Riley handed Watson a long and thin red bag- before he even held it, Sherlock knew it was a bottle of wine. He held the bottle fondly, inspecting the label as he nodded. He thanked Riley for it, kissed Candice on the cheek for no reason, and then sprung up to open the bottle.

"Should I get a glass for each of us?" Watson asked from the kitchen.

Candice and Mrs. Hudson called out in agreement; Riley uttered a hesitant "sure, thank you," and Sherlock looked over at her curiously. So she was going to drink? And then they'd be alone… _tonight would be interesting… _

_"_Sherlock?" Watson asked, peeking his head around the corner, glass in hand. Sherlock nodded.

Riley put her bag out of the way and approached Sherlock, one last gift in hand. It was wrapped more delicately than the others (if that were possible) and had a big red bow and ribbons as well. It was a medium-sized box- it looked the type - and Sherlock had absolutely no idea what it was…

She sat down on the arm of his chair. She was close now. Should he… put his arm around her like Watson did to Candice? Or rest it on the chair near her back? She turned to face him slightly, looking down at him as she handed over the gift.

"Open it later," she murmured with a nervous smile. Sherlock took the gift and placed it behind the chair.

"I have something for you as well," he said.

Riley looked surprised; she raised her eyebrows and smiled. "Alright, then," she said.

Watson came back with a tray of wine glasses filled to the brim. He handed them out to everyone before taking his seat next to Candice. Riley shifted in the chair uncomfortably; Sherlock placed his hand on the arm of the chair but didn't touch her. He debated whether or not to move it closer…

Watson raised his glass to propose a toast. "To friends!" he said excitedly. Everyone took a sip.

Sherlock gulped his wine quickly- right now, he desperately needed the comfort most people found in alcohol. _Would it make him less nervous? _He hoped so. He looked over at Riley, sitting still just a foot away from him, as she sipped the wine slowly. She closed her eyes, savoring the wine as though it was something she missed and wanted no part of at the same time.

Sherlock slowly moved his hand towards her. If they were to be alone later, and if he was going to make a move… _If he had the courage to… If it was even a good idea... _He needed to do it slowly, with small steps, rather than just diving right in. So he put his palm at the small of her back, resting on his elbow so he could touch her like this. She didn't turn to look at him, nor did she seem to stiffen or shy away. _That was a good sign. _He exhaled in relief.

He was dying to get her alone- as nervous as the thought made him- so he could ask her again about her trauma, in hopes that she'd budge this time and explain herself. The night would be complicated. She would resist, he would try to find a way that pushed but didn't entirely shove her away… _If if was anyone else- anyone at all- he would have figured it out already… He would have pushed them to the breaking point, until they screamed the truth at him, begging for mercy… _He had a knack for breaking people with the simplest details of their lives. It was part of his gift._ But he couldn't do that to her… He didn't want to put her through any more pain… _

Maybe if she drank enough, she'd talk… _No, that was wrong, especially considering what he already knew about her trauma. _He couldn't do that to her. He… _cared _too much. Too much to put their relationship in an uncomfortable position that might force her to give up and walk away.

Riley took another sip of wine. Watson checked his watch.

"We'd better get going," he said to Candice suddenly. "It's ten to eight, and- it looks like it's snowing."

Riley turned slowly to look out the window, her body leaning into Sherlock's hand. She was so… warm. And so close. Sherlock observed her for a moment; she was smiling, looking expectantly out the window. Sherlock couldn't help but smile, too. He didn't care much for snow; but if it made her happy… well, it made him happy, too.

"A white Christmas!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. She sipped her wine, which was almost gone. "How wonderful."

The infectious Christmas spirit of the apartment made Sherlock… _No. Not happy. Annoyed. Yes, annoyed, he had to- he'd always been annoyed by…_

_No… _He couldn't convince himself to hate these small gestures of humanity and happiness. To find them average and mundane. Because Watson was smiling in his stupid Christmas sweater. And Candice was smiling, nestled into his shoulder as he kissed her forehead. She was different to Watson, all right; Sherlock could tell already, and he'd only seen them interact for a short period of time. And Mrs. Hudson was looking at the snow falling serenely outside, and Sherlock thought of all she'd done for him- and all she'd continue to do for him- and he felt nothing but gratitude and warmth. _Things he'd never felt before- things he thought he couldn't understand. _And she turned to him and smiled in an approving way- a way that said _you're finally human, and I'm happy for you… _And he was happy, too...

_And Riley_… she was looking outside like a child eager for a white Christmas. And she was smiling in a way that reminded Sherlock of why he liked her: she was so damaged, with little fragments of her insecurities occasionally floating to the surface but otherwise drowning in a sea of her silent tragedy, yet so happy, so willing to smile in the face of something as simplistic and natural as snow on Christmas Eve. _Riley… Oh Riley… _She looked at him now, smiling for him in the same way that she smiled at the snow. And he smiled back. And for a moment, all was peaceful; all was quiet; he was… _normal… _He had feelings for someone, like everyone else did at some point in their lives… _And he was doing something about it..._

And even if their relationship never reached fruition and it all came to a crashing halt right now, he knew he'd be happy remembering this moment, when everything was soft and slow and beautiful for no particular reason at all. Just like he'd remember the moment in the cab when the lights bounced around her and he realized that he had feelings for her… She looked that way now, with the Christmas lights reflecting on her skin and making her glow… _Even if he never had the chance to say that she was his and only his, maybe this fragile moment would make everything worth it…_

"Sherlock…"

He snapped into focus. Candice and Watson were at the door, arm in arm; Mrs. Hudson was close behind, clutching the box of tea Riley had given her with pride. Watson was looking at him with mild confusion. _Had he been trying to get Sherlock's attention for a long time? _He realized how long he'd zoned out- probably a minute or two, during which everyone was preparing to leave. Another sharp pang of anxiety hit. _He'd be alone with Riley soon..._

"Right," he said. "Will you be back later?"

"No," Watson said sheepishly, "probably sleeping out and then heading to my sister's tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas," Sherlock said with a nod. "See you around."

Watson nodded in return. Candice told him and Riley that it was "lovely to meet them both," and to "have a Merry Christmas." She said the same to Mrs. Hudson before she and Watson left.

Mrs. Hudson hovered at the doorway, staring at Riley and Sherlock. His hand was still on her back; he felt like it would burst into flames if he moved it, but he was feeling bold even only after his first glass of wine, and he moved it gently up and down her spine, rubbing the small of her back with a touch that he prayed would feel inviting and implore her to stay.

"Lovely," Mrs. Hudson said quietly, "just lovely, you two. Just… lovely…"

Sherlock couldn't see Riley's reaction; but he blushed and glared at Mrs. Hudson as though threatening her not to say anything else. She said goodnight and merry Christmas and then left the flat, closing the door quietly behind her.

As soon as it shut, Riley was off the arm of Sherlock's chair and across the room. He felt disappointed and nervous. _Would she leave now that everyone else had gone?_

"I want you to know that I didn't plan this," he said suddenly, clearing his throat at the end of the sentence to suppress his nerves. "And I-"

"No, I know you didn't," she said. She was in the kitchen and a moment later, she returned with her glass of wine filled. Her hips swung as she moved across the living room, walking gracefully in her high heels. _Did she always walk like that? God, it was wonderful to watch her body at work… _She settled herself at the now empty couch, crossing her legs and leaning back as she drank the wine in a big, long gulp. She hesitated and then took another gulp.

"So why were you late?" Sherlock piped up, the silence making him uneasy. He didn't mean to sound accusing but it seemed to happen anyway- like subconsciously, he'd been counting the seconds to see her, and when she'd taken longer than she was supposed to, he was angry about it… And he remembered suddenly that she'd already explained it already, but he waited again for her to speak.

"Do you remember Peter Sherman?" she asked. "That particularly cheeky kid in my class?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Well as I said, he _had _to speak to me today about his paper, before I submitted grades for the semester. He was unhappy about his grade and he was also upset that he didn't get a spot on my internship team."

"Internship?"

"Every year I take on a few students to help with a new case study," she said. "He was a good candidate, but I had to exclude him because of a conflict of interests. The case I'm doing this year is about religious belief and its ability to drag people out of their traumas. Peter was adopted by a minister after his biological parents put him up for adoption… He'd bee too biased to interview both atheist and extremely religious trauma patients. I offered for him to be a participant in the study but he wanted no part of it. Threatened to sue the university for false bias and whatnot, but I don't think he has grounds to do so."

"No, I suppose not."

Sherlock took a sip of his wine. The eerie silence of the flat made him angry, and he felt the need to fill the void with conversation, even if it were awkward and polite.

"You don't seem to have brought many women over before," Riley commented.

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "And what makes you think that?"

"Mrs. Hudson's comments. The stupid grin on Watson's face when you put your hand on my back. And just… your general demeanor towards me."

"And what type of demeanor is that?"

"The kind that tells me that you, indeed, haven't done this many times before. If ever."

Sherlock sighed and looked away from her, down at his almost empty wine glass and his lap.

_"If ever."_ She knew him so well, and the fact that she knew how inexperienced he was…_ it bothered him. _He didn't want her to know him like that, and yet… She did already. And there was nothing he could do about it.

"Don't worry," Riley said with a gentle laugh, interrupting the chaos in his mind, "I haven't done this many times before, either. If ever, actually."

Sherlock looked up from his lap and over at her. She took another sip of her wine- the glass was almost half-empty and she'd just poured it...

"Now are you going to ask me anymore mundane questions like average people do to fill the silence and be polite, or are you going to open your present?"

Her words were sharp but polite. Demanding but not intrusive. Bold but not dramatic. Easy but not simple. He digested them for a moment, staring straight into her green eyes, and then at her lips. She wasn't smiling. _But she wasn't exactly frowning, either. She had a way of living her life in-between everything… _

"Open your present," she repeated. He barely heard her- if he hadn't been paying such close attention to her lips, he might've missed out on what she was saying altogether.

Sherlock reached behind the chair for his gift. He caressed the bow and looked at the wrapping paper, appreciating the effort that went into wrapping this gift. Either she cared or this was just another display of how methodical and obsessively neat she seemed to be. _Sherlock prayed that it was a bit of both. _

He tore at the wrapping paper. Sherlock still had no idea what was inside; he rattled the box, trying to figure it out, but it made no rustling noises and he was stumped. _That had never happened to him before… _

He opened the medium-sized white box but found another wrapped box inside of it. He looked up at Riley, who was still half-frowning and half-smiling. He couldn't read her. _Was this some sort of prank or joke? _He unwrapped the second box- and found another wrapped box inside…

"Don't tell me you wrapped a multitude of boxes inside one another just to annoy me," Sherlock said.

At this, Riley full-on smiled; but it was hesitant, and not her usual broad grin. "Not quite," she said delicately. "I just didn't want you to try and guess what it was before opening it."

_Another game. _He was reminded of his present, resting on his bedroom dresser- should he give it to her now? Sherlock noted that her glass of wine was almost empty now; she took one last sip, squinting her eyes as she swallowed it. She traced her finger delicately around the rim of the glass. _Was she just as nervous as he was?_

"Enjoying the wine?" Sherlock asked.

"I thought it would take the edge off," she said earnestly. "I had a glass or two before I came as well."

"A few weeks ago you said you didn't drink," Sherlock said accusingly. "Now you're drinking alone to- what, pluck up the courage to see me?"

She hesitated, then admitted, "you have… had an effect on me."

He cocked his head to the side. _Oh, if only she knew that she'd done the same thing to him, too… _Or did she know already? She must have…

She gestured towards his glass. "Would you like another?"

"Sure," Sherlock said.

She stood up and walked towards the kitchen. Though she didn't stumble or trip up, it was evident in the way that she was walking that she was anything but sober. Sherlock looked back at the present in his hand and unwrapped it yet again, praying another box wasn't nestled inside this one. To his dismay, another wrapped box was inside. He huffed in annoyance.

Riley returned from the kitchen with the almost-empty bottle of wine. She poured some in his glass and then returned to her seat across the couch from him, too far away from him for his taste. She poured the last of the wine in her glass and began to sip.

"That's the last one," she said, "I promise."

Sherlock ripped at it eagerly, adding the paper to the pile that was collecting at his feet. The box was thin and long, like a sheet of paper; and when he opened it, he found a small folder with a decently thick stack of paper inside.

He opened the folder gently. The first page of this massive document was a medical form with personal information scribbled in messy handwriting- _it was Riley's personal information. _This was it- everything he wanted. He read it quickly and thoroughly, afraid she might snatch it out of his hands.

Her full name- _Riley Elizabeth Parker- _was written boldly at the top. An address, different from where she currently lived, was there; her birthday, insurance company, and emergency contact information were there as well… Every detail of her life- dated to her teenage years long ago- was there.

Towards the bottom were larger sections. The first, labeled "primary symptoms of behavior that require medical attention," was answered with a short list: "acute signs of depression; decline in grades and social activity; uncharacteristically rebellious behavior; refusal of physical contact." The last portion was underlined, which didn't surprise Sherlock in the slightest.

"I went to private school," Riley said, "and they made me talk to a psychiatrist because my grades were slipping and they were 'concerned.' And 'worried about my mental health.' They threatened to kick me out of school so I went to a therapist."

Sherlock read the rest of the sheet eagerly. A small line of text that read "Current Diagnosis (Axis I)" read: "PTSD after incident. Depression." That much was obvious. He wanted details- more information.

"This… I guess you could say was the beginning of what I hope to be a long and prosperous psychiatric career," she continued. "I was so interested in the way this woman tried to manipulate me into feeling better, and into… I dunno, feeling like somehow it was _my _fault. So I studied what this woman supposedly so good at doing so I could do it to other people who needed it. So I could help."

Sherlock read on, hardly able to comprehend her words and the words of her case file at the same time. Another line read "Additional diagnosis after therapy (Axis I and Axis II): "adjustment disorder with mixed anxiety and depressed mood; adjustment disorder with disturbance of conduct; sexual aversion disorder" - again, this was underlined, and a small star was even scribbled next to it- "major depressive disorder, recurrent, severe with psychotic features."

He exhaled sharply_. Adjustment disorder_. _Mixed anxiety. Depressed Mood. Disturbance of Conduct. Sexual Aversion Disorder…Major depressive disorder._ Had she truly been depressed for her entire life? Maybe that's why she was so good at hiding things; if she'd just been asked to see a therapist as a teenager after a traumatic incident, she must've been good at hiding it. And all these years later, she still was. He didn't know most of the psychiatrist jargon, but it wasn't too difficult to figure out what it all meant. In summary: she was deeply disturbed, and had been her whole life, far beyond the extent of this accident._ Maybe all her problems had been brewing for a while, but they had finally pushed her to the edge… _

Underneath this line of text was a small box of information about hospital visits. Apparently the doctor had recommended a week in psychiatric care, but Riley had refused treatment- it was crossed out in bold red pen with "no compliance" written in a second set of handwriting.

"I had to continue seeing her for a year," Riley said, "until I left the boarding school and I was- well, that's not important now. I just… I thought you might want to read it. I thought it would be easier for both of us to- well, for you to find out about it, and for me to tell you without… having to tell you."

Sherlock looked up at her now. "Are- the details of _what _happened exactly in here?"

"Yes," she answered.

He hesitated and asked, "how- how can you be a psychologist if you have all this going on?"

"You once told me I had the tools to 'fix myself' but chose not to use them. Why do you think I wanted to study up on these tools in the first place? Because I didn't like the way someone else had used these tools to try and… fix it."

He considered this. It made sense now. He wanted to read more about the details of her life- the dozens of pages about her disorders and dysfunctions, and what caused them… And how therapy worked out the poison in her psyche- or at least attempted to, and obviously failed, given her mental status all these years later. Had she improved? He had no way of knowing; he had obviously never met her then to see just how bad she reacted to the whole thing. But right now he was looking at her, and the left corner of her mouth was twitching up in a sick smile- _why was she smiling?- _and he was a bit distracted…

"You can finish it later," she said. "It's long."

"Trust me, I will."

She nodded. Neither knew what to say, so Sherlock asked, "why the sudden change in attitude about telling me all this?"

"It was never a change. I always wanted to tell you. I just… couldn't."

"Couldn't?" he probed.

"Words…" she said it gently, and then drifted off, looking at her wine glass before looking back at Sherlock.

"Words are just… filthy," she continued. "_Filthy. _All while it was happening… When I was…" She choked for a moment, tears welling in her eyes.

"You don't have to-"

"No," she said firmly, "I will. His words… while I was… pinned down, against my will… They were filthy. And they consumed me… And the sound of my own screams…"

"Riley," Sherlock said. _He didn't want to know it like this. He didn't want to hear this. _He thought he wanted to, but now- he didn't at all. 

"No," she repeated, more firmly this time. "That sound… and his words… it shattered the silence. I woke up to it, with a headache and an aching body paralyzed under someone else's control. And the noise rang in my ears, and…"

"_Riley,_" Sherlock said, loudly and sharply.

"I don't like silence," she pressed on, quiet in response to his obvious aggravation. "It makes me uneasy because I hear filthy words and screaming playing over and over in my head. That's my white noise. That's what I hear when everyone else shuts up and returns to the quiet oasis of their mind. I don't like silence. No one has made me feel comfortable in it before."

"And I suppose I did," Sherlock said quietly.

"I thought you would, when I heard Watson talk about you. I wanted to meet you to see if… if you were like me, because I thought then maybe you would understand. And I got to know you."

"And you realized that we are the same."

"_Yes_," she breathed out in relief, "I did. And I wanted… to use words… well, I guess not so much now, 'cus I gave you words on paper and I didn't actually _tell _you, but I… I wanted to use words for once, to tell you what happened, to explain, so you could… maybe understand, or try to at least."

She set the wine glass on the table and stood up. She kicked her shoes off, obviously uncomfortable, and tugged at the bottom of her dress. She crossed her arms as she stood. She stepped towards him, but then stopped herself. She looked like she was considering taking another step, but she stopped herself again. She was crying now; he wanted to beg her to stop, because it ruined him and made him fall apart and melt in the armchair that just a second ago had united these two bodies, even if only in the simplest gesture of his hand on her small and fragile back.

"I can't unlearn everything I've taught myself," she said, as though trying to justify every nuanced detail of everything she'd ever done. "I- I can't do it at all, let alone this quickly and- I can't…"

She stopped then and slowly fell to her knees at the floor. _She was falling apart, too. Physically. Mentally… _

There she was, in pieces. She wasn't a woman anymore. She was a girl. She was flawless skin covered in dripping tears. She was a set of shining, pained green eyes. She was red lipstick that he wanted to stare at, but he felt guilty. She was a head of messy straight hair… _Beautiful, messy hair… _that radiated around a set of delicate, tiny shoulders, and fell down across a set of shining eyes, shielding them. She was a dress- a perfect dress, molded to a perfect body. She was a pair of shoes, disconnected from their tired and worn-out feet. She was… falling apart… melting…

Sherlock got out of his armchair and approached her. She looked up at him suddenly. He stopped but knelt down to look at her, a few feet away.

"Sherlock," she said quietly, "I'm so…"

"You're so what, Riley? What were you going to say?"

She leaned back on her haunches, looking up at him. _She was a mess._ Her case file was on the coffee table nearby but Sherlock paid no attention to it. He didn't need to see dozens of pages of analysis to know that she was severely fucked up and traumatized. _It was happening right in front of him. _

"You're lonely," she said to him in an accusing tone. It caught Sherlock off guard; he raised an eyebrow at her and shifted uncomfortably.

"No," Sherlock said, "I'm alone. And you-"

"You hate it," Riley said. "You won't admit it, but you do."

He frowned. "Yeah, well, so do you," he said quietly, afraid of breaking her down even further with insensitive words.

He inched closer to her. She backed away, up against the armchair, but he wasn't having it. She was already broken- and he'd done nothing to bring this on… _It had been her choice to share all this… _

_And he was realizing that maybe now it was his job to pull her out of all of it. _

"Frowning does you a disservice," he said. He was a foot or so from her now. He lifted his palm and slowly reached for her face; she didn't move at his touch, but he saw her whole body stiffen and snap shut, like a rusty hunting trap hidden on a forest floor trying to catch wild game. He lifted a finger towards her chin and tilted it upwards so he could look at her. Her eyes were empty.

"I can't help it," she said innocently. "Sherlock, I've tried. I devoted my life to curing myself, and yet… the more I study it, the deeper I go, the more it hurts…"

"Maybe I can help- it. Help _you." _

She stared at him and opened her mouth to speak; but he wasn't done.

"I don't… care about people," he added. His words were outpouring. _If she was going to shatter in front of him, and crumble at his will, he could at least return the favor. _"It's not an advantage and it never has been for me. But I can't… I can't _not _care about you, Riley. And if you say you can't help it, after all you've done to try, then maybe it's time for "

He closed his eyes. A pang in his chest and a fire in his heart made him feel like he was dying. _He had never, in the entirety of his life, spoken so candidly. So honestly. So… raw, and powerfully, and… No, this was vulnerability. Caring. Was. Not. An. Advantage. _And there he was, kneeling in front of her on the living area floor, caring about her. _Like he never had before. Like he had never wanted to, and yet…_

"I'm sorry," she pleaded. "I- I've poisoned your senses. I've- ruined you. I know I have. I-"

She cut herself off as though she thought she was talking too much. He stared into her. "I hate silence," she said. "I told you, I just… I talk a lot, to fill the void, to create a noise that isn't filthy, and yet… Somehow, I've managed to do so just now…"

Sherlock frowned. "I need silence," he said darkly. "I can't bare the mundane conversation of the ordinary. Of the insignificant and the mundane. But you…" He hesitated, frowning; but she looked at him expectantly, and he had already ruined himself with words of caring and compassion._ He might as well dive completely into the cold waters, and sink a bit further while he was at it… _

"The silence of you makes me want to scream," he added. He choked on the words, which tasted a bit like the bliss of getting one step closer to her and also a bit like the bitter pain of being honest.

What happened next happened all too quickly- so quickly that Sherlock knew even in that moment that when he looked back and remembered this, he'd hardly remember any details of it, because everything was flying at him all at once so quickly and so harshly that he couldn't grasp _anything, _let alone _everything, _no matter how much he wanted to.

Her red lips were crashing into his like a car desperate to wrap itself around a tree. His lips- twice as big and twice as eager- obliged and tangled with hers. _He wanted just as badly to crash into her. _His hands were digging into the soft skin of her leg as he twisted her to the floor on her back, suddenly on top of her. Her body was shaking underneath him. He let go of her leg to wrap his fingers in the tresses of her soft, straight hair, tugging her head up from its spot on the floor closer to his mouth.

Her lips- still like a car crash, one that he saw coming from a mile away and knew would end badly, but one that he couldn't avoid, and one he couldn't bring himself to look away from- pulled away, then pushed back at him again, then pulled away again. _Maybe that was what their whole relationship was- _a car crash, pushing and pulling away…

Her dress no longer covered the lower half of her body; it was pushed up at her mid-waist, like sheets of scribbled-on paper that once told a beautiful and sexy story, but were now being tossed in the waste bin like unwanted trash. The sound of his pants zipper was deafening. _She wanted noise to fill the silence… There it was. _The sound of her panties and her dress gently pattering against the floor as they flung across the room was equally as turbulent. And as if all these sounds weren't enough, she started to moan softly as he kissed at her neck and worked his way down- the roaring truck of his lips speeding down the roadmap that was her small and broken body, towards her-

And then she was away from him, hunched in a ball, shaking still but not underneath him in a way that made him loose and overheated. And it was over. Her back was to him, and she had her knees tucked up to her chest as she convulsed, sobbing loudly, still trying to fill the void that she'd just described to him moments ago… _If she had been a broken mess before, what was she now?_

Sherlock buttoned his shirt and zippered his pants as quietly as he could. _That was what he wanted, but somehow… Not at all what he had wanted at the same time. _He hadn't actually done the deed- he had been close- but he still felt dirty… _filthy… _like he'd taken advantage of her in a way that he had never intended to, and it had all happened so fast that he had no time to consider whether or not it was a good idea… _Which clearly it hadn't been..._

They sat in silence for a long, lonely moment. He put a hand on her back, just as he had before; she didn't seem to notice it. He rubbed up and down, trying to comfort her, his palm gently grazing each of the vertebrae that stuck out of her back as she hunched over in agony. To his surprise, she didn't pull away.

There were no words for this. Nothing he could say- no degree of desperate apology or honest explanation- could make her feel better, or remedy the seemed like she had wanted it… Until suddenly, she hadn't anymore.

"Hand me my clothes," she whispered.

Sherlock pushed her dress over towards her. She scooped it up and put it back on so quickly that Sherlock felt like she had always maintained an intense consciousness of her nudity. _Or maybe she hadn't undressed in front of someone- a man in particular- in a very long time._ He turned away to give her privacy. She reached for her shoes and Sherlock stood, maintaining a polite distance from her. She definitely wanted space now- she always had, but… _Well, had she? _They had just been so close…

"You didn't want to be coddled," Sherlock said quietly, feeling guilty for pushing her. "I wouldn't hurt you. I'd always stop when you want me to. But this…" He hesitated. "I thought you wanted it…"

"That's the problem," she said. "I just-"

She ran her hands through the strands of her hair as though she were about to rip them out… _these beautiful strands, the ones that had just been curled around his fingers… _

_"_I can't do it," she said, in a voice that sounded like a suppressed shriek, "I can't- _give _myself- I can't- _let _you have- me…. It… I can't…_" _

She heaved for breath- silently at first, and then more loudly and obviously. She couldn't breathe. Tears were pouring out of her eyes. Her palms were shaking; so was the rest of her body.

"Riley," Sherlock said sternly. He stepped forward and reached out a hand- but it was no use. She backed away, doubling over like she was in pain or her stomach was about to burst.

"You're having a panic attack," he added, stepping forward again. "You need to try and breathe normally, or-"

"Stay away from me," she warned.

"Riley. _Breathe. _Calm down. Let me-"

"No, I can't," she said. "Oh, I can't, I can't. _Sherlock. I can't. Do this. At all." _

Sherlock stumbled backwards involuntarily. He felt like he was about to have a panic attack, too; everything was hot… _Not in the good, happy way that it had been a few minutes ago… _But in a way that hurt him. _I can't. Do this. At all… _

"You're not thinking rationally," he said You're being overemotional, and-"

"Overemotional," she repeated, wiping the tears from her face self-consciously. "_Overemotional."_

"I didn't mean to-"

"No, it's fine," Riley said politely. "It's- it's obvious that we're… Oh, I don't know, incompatible? Emotionally." She hesitated and added, "physically, too. I- I think I should go, yeah?"

"Riley, I-"

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she said through heavy, guarded breaths. "I- well, I won't… see… Just Merry Christmas, and a lovely New Year."

She turned to leave, plucking her coat from the hanger near the door and pulling it close around her body. She was being polite and courteous, like an awkward dinner guest who chose to leave the party last and didn't know the host well enough to want to stay. Sherlock was paralyzed; he wanted to help her, to hold her hand and beg her to stay, but… _it was past the point of return. He had pushed too hard. And now he had to suffer the consequences._

She turned around and lingered in the doorway- _under the stupid mistletoe- _and looked at Sherlock longingly. _She didn't _want_ this- she couldn't want this… _She opened her mouth as if to speak again, but obviously found it impossible, because she shut it abruptly. _He felt the same way. _She stepped out to the hall, shutting the door quietly behind her.

He remembered the way his palm felt against her back, as though his skin had melted into hers… Her finger tracing lightly around the top of her wine glass… _The way she felt underneath him, right there on the floor…_

He tore down a string of Christmas lights around the window. Then he ripped at the mistletoe, throwing it out the hallway and at the front door, so roughly that it left a dent and scratch marks on the front door. He considered tearing down the tree, but he couldn't bring himself to do that just yet.

He strode over to his bedroom, slamming the door to put a solid wall between him and the floor where- _it, _whatever "it" was- had just happened. He sat at the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, until he looked up to see the wrapped present, sitting innocently on his dresser.

_It's just a game. Stupid, really. You pick a card and it gives you some personal topic and you're supposed to say 'I've never done such and such' in relation to that topic, and anyone who's done it has to take a token or something. I don't know, the rules are in there. I figured it might be a change of pace from our… usual games._

The words he'd never had a chance to say rung in his ears. _He now understood what she meant about the deafening roar of painful silence._ The gift he never got to give was staring at him expectantly. Well, he had gotten everything he wanted- to know her, to understand her… To hold her- and yet… _he didn't feel like he had anything left within him at all. _

Before Sherlock knew what he was doing, he swung his arm at the gift on his dresser. In one sweeping motion, all the objects on his dresser came crashing to the floor. The glass vase smashed and the water spilled everywhere. The purple carnations spread out chaotically in front of the door; some of the petals fell off the flowers in a sad, wet heap. The present had skidded across the floor, far away from Sherlock like he wanted.

_Even if their relationship never reached fruition, and it all came to a crashing halt right now, he knew he'd be happy remembering this moment…_

_Just like he'd remember the moment in the cab when the lights bounced around her and he realized that he had feelings for her… when everything was soft and slow and beautiful for no particular reason at all…_

He had been so _wrong_. He tried to feel this way again about what had just happened before… It was so good and so bad, so happy and so painful all at once…

He tried to remember all the little moments that had made him want her, from the way her hair looked on their first date, and the way she'd called him an idiot… To the time she'd defended him in class and implored him to realize that he, in fact, _did _have emotions… _He remembered how she had straightened her hair that same day… _How she knew he'd be at his apartment, and offered to cook them dinner… _If only he had said yes then… _He remembered the crime scene, when he knew she was like him, and more specifically the way she looked in the cab with the lights bouncing around her as she realized that he liked her…

But the small pang of happiness he felt remembering all this was washed over by a wave of sheer desperation and loneliness. _You're lonely. You hate it. _She, as always, had been so right. And she had given herself to him for the briefest moment, making him want to beg for more, but then she left… She was gone all too quick, away from him forever. And he knew the last thing he remembered about her would be the way she looked under the dim Christmas lights in his living room, crying in the doorway like she wanted to be kissed but would die if Sherlock tried to do so. He'd remember her as a heap of parts on the floor- a set of crying eyes and a crumpled dress and messy hair. And she was gone.

_And he had hated every second since she had walked out the door. _


	8. Winning and Losing

_IM SO SORRY THAT THIS TOOK FOREVER TO POST. I had to write the next two chapters before this one, so I'll post them very soon, as they're both just being polished. I also PROMISE I'll update more frequently from now on. I was just being lazy over winter break. -FLB_

Three days had passed since Sherlock had last seen or spoken to Riley. He hadn't dared try to contact her in this time- he wasn't a fool. He knew she wanted nothing to do with him now. And in an attempt to deal with the aftermath of her total absence, all he'd done in the last three days was compose a new song on the violin from the darkness of his bedroom, and lay awake staring at the ceiling, and refuse to talk to John when he asked if Sherlock wanted food or to go out… And he had read read over Riley's case file- her Christmas present- at least a dozen times, as he was doing now, hunched over at a cluttered desk.

He'd previously worried that understanding everything about her would make him less interested in her, and yet… it only made him respect and want her more. Everything made sense to him now- he had the complete picture of who she was and _why _she was this way, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know it now, because all it did was make him angry.

He was angry that Riley's mother had died giving birth to her- and even angrier that this had caused Riley's father to become an alcoholic, one who blamed her for his beloved wife's death, and one who beat her now and then as she grew up. Sherlock was angry that, in spite of her perfect grades and good behavior, her father still abused her as a child and young teenager, and "recognized her as a waste of space"- those were Riley's exact words, according to a transcript of one of her therapy sessions. And all her father's action had caused her to shed her "good behavior" and become a reckless young teenager who stole books and slept out at Hyde Park because she was afraid to go home. And it had caused her to drink herself numb, too, just like her father.

That is, however, until Riley was sixteen and had been invited to a party and had her drink drugged by three men, who raped her for several hours. And worst of all, Sherlock was angry that her father didn't believe it had happened- apparently no one did- and that he'd accused her of making it up for attention or for "asking for it."

_Adjustment disorder with mixed anxiety and depressed mood… Adjustment disorder with disturbance of conduct… sexual aversion disorder… Major depressive disorder: recurrent, severe with psychotic features… _

He remembered reading all that, but after reading almost a hundred pages of detailed information about each of her symptoms after the rape- ranging from the obvious refusal of physical contact to a long and pained description of a three-month binge in which Riley barely slept, ate practically nothing and lost twenty pounds, and basically lived on the streets to avoid going home.

She had told Sherlock that she'd been forced to go to therapy because her grades had slipped up at one point. She refused to be committed or undergo further psychiatric treatment. She was on no medication- she refused to take it. The files documented her life until she was eighteen years old; after that he just knew she went to university and went into therapeutic work and case studies, and eventually teaching.

Somehow, she'd pulled herself out of misery and was able to maintain at least _somewhat _or a normal life… Somehow, she was okay- or better than she had been in her teenage years… _But was she better? _Obviously not.

Sherlock found himself with his fingers twisted tightly around the strands of his hair, tugging at them. In spite of all the damage in her life, Sherlock admired her tenacity, her unwillingness to let this hinder her wants and needs. She stole books to feed her thirst for knowledge when her father refused to give her money to do so. She got perfect grades for all but one semester (after she had been raped, which had prompted her to go to the school therapist) in spite of her reckless behavior and minor run-ins with the law, and went to college- and graduate school- on a full scholarship. And now she was one of the most respected psychologists in the city, if not the country or world. And she still had friends. And colleagues, and- even if only briefly, she'd managed to face her fears and be intimate with someone else… It took a trained eye to tell that she was damaged, and Sherlock knew that she tortured herself with thoughts of what happened when she was alone, but she had survived. And meanwhile, Sherlock- with no outside trauma and only the pain that being himself seemed to cause- was far colder and meaner than she.

Apologizes would not be enough to stitch the wound he had caused by pushing her. He had tried to convince herself that she wanted it- and that some part of it may have even been good and enjoyable for her- but it was no use. No, he had rushed her, pushed her too fast and too hard… _It was his fault, not hers… _

Sherlock glanced across his bedroom at the pile of broken glass, and dead flowers, the aftermath of Riley's now abandoned Christmas present. The game was on the floor as well, with its cards and various pieces scattered about.

"Sherlock," a voice called from the living area. _Watson. _Sherlock didn't answer. He thought Watson would know better than to try and speak to him right now.

"Sorry," the voice piped up again, "but- what exactly is a bra doing on the floor in front of the fireplace?"

Sherlock rose from his chair and slammed the door of his bedroom shut. Then he opened it slightly and slammed it again- and again- and again… Maybe Watson would leave him alone now. He felt a moment of relief with this small act of outright rebellion, but it was fleeting. Sherlock left the door closed and kicked the bits of broken glass and flowers aside, out of his line of sight, before he crouched down in front of he door.

His head in his hands, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He had no voicemails from her to replay, no texts to look over, no pictures to stare at… nothing. Nothing but the case file that explained why she had run off in the first place, and nothing but the broken vase of flowers and the stupid board game.

In spite of his best judgement, and in spite of the aching that came with knowing she didn't want him- and that she might actually be _repulsed _by the thought of him… Sherlock picked up his phone and skimmed through his short contacts list to find her phone number. He knew it by heart- but he could only muster up the audacity to do this once, and if he typed it incorrectly the first time he wouldn't dare try again. He hit send.

The call rang out and went to voicemail. _Hi, you've reached Riley Parker. I'm unavailable but please leave a message with your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you!_

Sherlock hung up the phone just before it started to record the voicemail. He wanted to call again just to hear her voice, even if it was just the same message over and over; but he knew that one call was far too much already. This was why he never reached out to people- why he never made the first attempt. Why he never made _any _attempt. Why he never cared. People never reciprocated, and if they did, it was in the smallest and most disappointing of ways.

It was a game; a delicate balance of winners and losers, and this time- for the first time in his life- Sherlock had lost. For the briefest of a moment, that Christmas Eve night on the floor of his flat… He'd felt like he won. But now he knew he was wrong- and he'd lost. He'd lost everything. He hadn't gotten what he wanted. He had been proved wrong.

Hours passed. Night came. Sherlock played more violin. He read the case file another two times. He lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. He collected the pieces of broken vase and the flower petals and pushed them into a small heap, but he made no further efforts to clean up. Watson didn't dare check up on him. A full moon hanging visible in Sherlock's window, but he hadn't been keeping track of time. He didn't look at the clock and he hadn't for the past few days. He occasionally glanced over at his phone, laying expectantly on his desk, but it did nothing. Until-

It rang and the noise shattered through the silence Sherlock had surrounded himself with. He ran to it and saw two words light up on screen: _Riley Parker. _She was phoning him back...

He answered it immediately but upon hitting the button to receive the call, found himself entirely speechless. He opened his mouth but nothing came out except a stifled, quiet, "Riley…"

_"Peter…don't have to kill me… I can help… Dragging your professor out to... top floor… abandoned bathtub factory? This hardly…. where are we… anyway…"_

"Riley?" Sherlock said loudly. He put the phone on speaker and stood abruptly. He couldn't hear everything she was saying; her voice was muffled, which indicated (aside from the obvious fact that she was calling him while with a killer) that the phone was probably hidden somewhere, like in her pocket, and she's redialed his missed call.

Riley was in trouble- but Sherlock didn't know where she was. "Peter" was his first hint, and when combined with "professor," Sherlock immediately knew who it was: Peter Sherman- the cheeky student in lecture, who had apparently bothered Riley on Christmas Eve (that dreadful… but wonderful night) about his paper. That was a start, at the very least.

_Have to kill me. _So he had her hostage somewhere- _but where? _His next clue- _abandoned bathtub factory- _gave him another start, but again, it was little help. He didn't know of any such place from memory or off the top of his head. Sherlock burst through the door of his bedroom and scoured the living room. Of course the first thing he saw was her bra, laying innocently by the dark fireplace- but it wasn't what he was looking for right now. He kept the phone on speaker, near his ear so he could hear every word of what she was saying.

"Riley," he said, "keep talking. Please…"

He knew she couldn't hear him; she was calling for help- to ask him to find her and save the day. She didn't want to talk- even if she _could _speak directly to him, why would she? _Why had she called him? _Sherlock would ponder that later- right now, he needed to find her. And the fact that she'd called _him_… As twisted as it was, he took it as a good sign.

_"Right… Daisy Imports… Well then…"_

There it was. She was making it even easier for him- he'd always admired how good she was at getting information from people through conversation, when he preferred to do it without them speaking… Her voice went in and out, and Sherlock was only able to catch parts of her sentences, but it was enough to go off of. He looked through the living room until finally he found John's laptop buried under a stack of newspaper.

"MRS. HUDSON!" he shouted quickly as he opened John's laptop.

Sherlock opened the internet and began searching for "Daisy Imports London." He placed the phone close to him on the desk, on speakerphone so he could hear everything she said.

_"…A bit of pleasure in this, aren't you?" _Riley's voice said hesitantly. _Keep talking. Please. If you talk, you're alive… You can give me more information…_

_"Shut the fuck up!" _a second voice yelled through the phone. That must've been Peter. He obviously sounded very angry- but his voice was even, and he didn't sound nervous…

He heard footsteps at the door- Mrs. Hudson stood at the doorway, looking tentatively at Sherlock before she looked around the messy living room.

"Sherlock," she cooed in her soft voice, "is that a bra by your fireplace-"

"I need your phone," Sherlock interrupted. He sat at the edge of his seat, scrolling through pages of information as quickly as he could, looking for any indication as to where Daisy Imports might've been.

"Why? Yours is-"

"_There's no point in _not _telling me… you'll be… killing me soon…" _

Sherlock stared at his phone for a moment. _She was going to die if he didn't hurry up and find her- and save her. _Peter Sherman, the cheeky, obnoxious student from her psychology class, was going to kill her.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson said. "Someone in a bit of trouble, Sherlock?"

"_MRS. HUDSON," _Sherlock shouted firmly, "_I REQUIRE YOUR PHONE." _

"Well, all right, all right," she said stubbornly. She shuffled towards Sherlock and handed over her old flip-phone, which she hardly used.

Sherlock opened a new web page that had showed up in the search results- and finally, he found the address of a factory for Daisy Imports just outside of London. The factory had closed down years ago… _Making it the perfect place to kidnap someone and hurt them… _

_"I didn't know that," _Riley's voice said. It was soft and sad, with forced calm. "_Thanks for telling..." _

Sherlock felt himself crumbling to a million pieces when he heard the sadness in her voice. _She was trying so hard to keep it together…_ He quickly rose from his chair, grabbing his coat, scarf and his own phone. He then snatched the phone rom Mrs. Hudson's hand and dialed a number he knew by heart but seldom called- he was used to being asked for help, not needing it…

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," a voice said. "Who's calling?"

"It's Sherlock," he said quickly as he burst through the door of 221B. "I need you to send officers to an abandoned Daisy Imports factory outside of London, at Pisonian Road. A- colleague of mine is being held against her will, and I think she's going to be-"

"I'll be needing my phone, Sherlock!" a dainty voice called after him. But he wasn't listening- he was outside on Baker Street, waiting impatiently to hail a cab, but none came.

"Hang on, colleague? _Her? _What-"

_"I… well… from experience… just… _did _what I was… scared me while I was…" _Sherlock huffed out in annoyance as he tried to listen to Riley and talk to Lestrade, who was being particularly annoying.

"_Listen," _Sherlock hissed, as he managed to flag down a cab, "she's being held hostage by a student of hers, and she managed to phone me for help and let me know that he's planning on killing her. _Send the damn unit over. _I'll see you there."

He hung up the phone and told the cabbie the address. The cabbie had no idea where it was, but he put it in his GPS device and was on his way within a moment. Sherlock also flashed one of the cards he's pick-pocketed from Lestrade when he was annoying; he told the cabbie he was with the police, and that the cabbie was authorized to break speed laws to get to the scene as fast as possible.

Sherlock kept the phone on speaker but held it close to his head as they rushed to the scene.

_"I ran away… painfully, begrudgingly… even though doing it… uncomfortable… second chance, I'd run back towards my fears… until they… weren't my fears… I don't know, enjoyed… you have the gumption… Peter… if you can point a gun at someone- you can definitely…" _

So he had a gun. Sherlock mulled over these words; _what was she talking about? _Was she… _talking about him? _No. It couldn't be. She didn't care; she hadn't talked to him, she was only phoning him for … _Why were they talking about all this- about Riley's fears? _Could it be that… That she really _was _talking about him…

Sherlock heard a _thump _through the phone and prayed that it was the sound of the gun dropping to the floor, though he knew that would be impractical. If this Peter Sherman really _was _going to kill Riley, he probably couldn't be talked out of it. And why hadn't he done it already? _Why was he talking so much?_ He'd been smart enough to bring her to an abandoned factory to do the deed… He'd planned this… He wasn't an amateur. And that concerned Sherlock…

_"It makes sense to me… Me… traumatized… and your pattern…" _

_Pattern? _What did she mean by that? Was he… _had he killed before? _Had he-

Sherlock suddenly remembered the phone conversation he'd previously had with Riley, in which he'd asked for advice about the serial killer he'd been hunting: _he's someone who experienced a trauma himself… It's obvious that he targets these victims for a reason… He could be killing them out of some sort of misplaced aid… _

Riley was right- she fit his pattern. Peter wasthe serial killer they had been tracking. How Peter knew about her trauma was a mystery to Sherlock, as she kept it such a heavily guarded secret… But this was almost irrelevant. Peter was a serial killer. And he was going to kill Riley.

"Hurry up," Sherlock barked at the cabbie.

"I'm trying, sir," the cabbie said. He stepped on the gas a bit more and increased his speed, weaving in and out of cars on the somewhat empty main road.

_"Fooled me… Yes… woman you hung? Thought the person who murdered… it all made sense. You fooled me."_

Peter was going to kill Riley because he disliked her, and because it fit with his pattern: a victim who suffered through a trauma, and who would have a reason to die… _Would he make it look like a suicide? _Peter had a gun… Was he going to… _Oh God… _It made Sherlock sick to think about it. He peered out the window and noted that they were on the outskirts of the city; he expected that they'd be arriving soon. He stared at his phone, desperately waiting for Riley to speak again, and praying that it wouldn't be the last time he'd hear her do so…

_"More careful… police are catching… all serial killers inevitably…"_

_"What do you mean?" _the second voice shouted. Peter was nervous and angry- he obviously hadn't expected her to know about it.

There was a long silence. He assumed they were still talking- or, at least, he hoped they were, because it meant Riley was still alive and there was a chance he could save her-

_"…Don't enjoy…"_

_"_What are you _saying_?" Sherlock asked the phone in frustration. The cabbie looked back at him as though curious as to what was going on.

"We should be there soon," the cabbie said. "It's not very far." He sped up a bit- Sherlock assumed that now he'd heard the conversation on the phone and now had an understanding of the severity of this situation.

_"Okay, okay," _Riley said suddenly. She sounded hesitant and nervous- which made Sherlock even more worried. So far she'd been so calm, so collected, in the face of potential death… _Yes, it was potential… He had to save her… he had to…_

_"I wouldn't say perfect… I grade your papers…" _Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at her sarcastic tone, even in this situation when she might- _no, she wasn't going to die… He would be there soon…_ And his eyes started to water and ache, and he was on the edge of the cab seat, waiting anxiously to arrive…

_"Don't do that!" _Peter was angry. He was shouting- that was the only time Sherlock could hear him speak… _ "No use… feel guilty… die anyway… why do you care what happens…"_

Sherlock stared out the window of the cab. _He had been here before… In a cab, thinking about her… _But before he'd been surrounded by the power of the city lights that illuminated her face, and surrounded her like a halo… _She had been next to him…_

But now it was just Sherlock, alone and staring across the cab at an empty seat… Wishing she was next to him, like he had never done with anyone before… He wanted her to be there… _He had never felt that way about anyone… _And if she died…

_"Well… murder is also a sin… you're in a bit of a pickle…" _

Sherlock laughed, his eyes numb from a sensation that felt much like crying- but he didn't quite know what that felt like, as he hadn't done it since childhood… _She was about to be killed, and there she was _

And that was why Sherlock, who was staring at the empty seat wishing she was there and wishing that he wasn't rushing towards her in a cab trying to save her life… Sherlock, who had never thought that caring was an advantage… Sherlock, who had never loved nor even felt compassion… _loved_ her. He knew this couldn't be anything else. _It's the only logical explanation- that feeling this way… Feeling illogically attracted to this woman, who is frustrating and closed-off yet wonderful and desirable… It had to be that. _He wanted to say it to her, just so that if this didn't turn out the way he wanted… _If he couldn't… no… he had to save her… _He'd regret it if he didn't say it…

Another elongated silence ensued; Sherlock could hear Riley and Peters' voices that sounded as quiet as whispers, but their words weren't decipherable. He heard scratching noises, like the phone was rubbing against her back pocket. _Was she moving? Was she walking somewhere? _The taxi zoomed forward and pulled up next to a dirt road and halted to an abrupt stop. Ahead of them was a large, decrepit-looking factory building- with a car parked outside.

"_Everything's a trauma…" _Riley's voice was so soft and quiet that he had to press the phone to his ear to hear it, even on speaker. And in contrast to Peter's harsh shouting, she sounded so calm…

Sherlock bolted out of the cab and ran towards the factory. The cabbie swore at him and ran after him for not paying, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him now. He heard distant sirens- Lestrade's unit must be arriving soon; Sherlock glanced over his shoulder as he ran and saw that a few police cars and an ambulance were just pulling up to the spot now.

"_You don't want to do it yourself?"_

This was it- Sherlock could tell. He held the phone to his ear as he ran towards the building, which was down a short dirt path alongside an empty concrete parking area.

Peter was getting ready to… what, make her kill herself? The other crime scenes, he'd done the deed himself and just covered it up to look like a suicide. _What was he going to do to Riley? _Would he shoot her, or-

_"Take your clothes off," _Peter's voice said.

_No. No… _If he was going to hurt her- _if he was going to touch her- _Sherlock burst through the huge, open doorway of the factory. He wasn't going to wait for the police to handle the situation- he'd called them as backup. He kept his phone close to his ear but soon after he heard a _crunch _noise, and the line rang dead. Sherlock wanted to scream. Peter had probably seen the call and smashed her phone, or it had dropped to the ground along with her pants… Just the thought of it made him cringe... Either way, this wasn't good- and she was alone, with him, and he was going to…

He ran through the enormous factory, trying to remember what she'd said about where they were: _top floor… _He looked for a staircase or elevator and saw it across the way, so he sprinted towards it, tucking his phone into his pocket. An elevator shaft was nearby, but it was broken down and sealed off with caution tape.

The first floor of the factory was empty, save for abandoned forklifts and empty crates. They were covered in graffiti and a few rats scurried away as Sherlock's feet pounded against the cement, running to the staircase and up the numerous flights of stairs…

He got to the top floor completely winded and weak in the knees from the climb, and he didn't see anyone immediately or hear talking. He left the stairwell and walked as quietly as possible into the top floor, hoping he could use the element of surprise to his advantage.

This floor of the factory was filled with bathtubs, most of which were dirty and covered in graffiti and cobwebs. Sherlock looked around the factory for any sign of Riley- and then he saw _him_...

At the farthest end of the factory stood Peter Sherman, standing a few feet away from one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Sherlock walked towards him and Peter turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock before he looked back out the window.

"So you found me," he said, so quietly that Sherlock barely heard him.

"Where's Riley?" he said. The gun lay on the floor besides Peter; he was just staring out the window, the moonlight- and the spinning lights of the cop cars and ambulance. He was distracted; he didn't answer Sherlock.

_"_WHERE IS RILEY!?" Sherlock shouted.

Peter didn't flinch. He continued to stare out the window but tilted his head upwards, as though looking at the moon. "I failed," was all he said. "I failed you… I'm so sorry…"

And with that, Peter took a running start at the window and jumped straight out of it. The sound of shattering glass echoed all throughout the factory. Sherlock ran forward, towards the heap of broken glass; he saw Peter's body on the ground below, sprawled out awkwardly with his head surrounded by a pool of blood. Uniformed officers were walking towards the body now, and others were walking into the building, weapons raised to assure that there was no other threat.

But he didn't care about Peter. He wanted to know where Riley was, but he had yet to see her. Sherlock prowled around the factory, jogging between the rows of bathtubs to search for her, until-

A faint, compassionate voice mumbled nearby. He couldn't decipher what she was saying; but it was definitely her, and she sounded like she was nearby…

Sherlock turned swiftly and saw a small head with straight brown hair popped out of a bathtub. Her arm was propped on the rim of the bathtub, and a pool of blood had formed on the floor beneath her wrist. Near this pool of blood was a pile of clothes and a small, bloody razor blade. And when Sherlock stood over her, looking at her naked body as it was soaked in blood, he swore that she was smiling…


	9. The Poison and the Remedy

Riley's face smacked into the cement floor as a hand roughly pushed her down. For a moment, she was temporarily blinded and dizzy; she felt pressure on her back—a foot— and heard a voice that commanded, "get up."

A cloth wrapped tightly around her mouth disabled her from speaking or breathing easily; her hands, tied behind her back, disabled her from getting up easily as well. She stood slowly and turned to face none other than Peter Sherman, who yielded a gun and was holding it authoritatively a foot or so away from her. She straightened herself and cracked her neck.

She was in an abandoned factory; they'd walked up eight flights of stairs, to the very top, and walked towards the farthest and most deserted end. The huge glass windows let in natural moonlight that casted long and lonely shadows across the floor. The high ceilings made the factory unbearably cold from the outside chill.

It was some sort of plumbing factory, with a series of ceramic sinks, bathtubs, and toilets lined up to be inspected, though they never would be. Cobwebs formed over several of them. Dust plagued the floor. The ceramic tubs looked old; some were rusting, some were cracked, and a lot of them were covered in colorful graffiti. At the end of the factory, where Peter had shoved her to the ground and where they currently stood, there were two bathtubs several meters apart, one on its side and the other upright, looking untouched and clean of graffiti. It actually looked cleaner than all the other tubs in the huge factory.

Riley hadn't been able to see anything on the car ride over, so she had no idea where this factory was. Peter had stormed into her office, pulled a gun on her, and ushered her out of the back door and into the trunk of the car. It had hardly frightened her at first; it wasn't the first time she'd dealt with someone who was mentally unstable, obviously, but she had just been surprised that _Peter_ was doing all this. She'd seen no warning signs—though thinking back on how angrily he'd reacted to his paper critique and being shut out of the internship, she supposed it all made sense. She was also surprised to see that the gun was real. How had it come into his possession?

But Peter Sherman was not a killer, though he certainly had gone through a lot of trouble to try and scare her due to what she assumed was a grudge over his shutout from her internship. She assumed that was all it was—a scare, a grudge, a prank on his teacher. Peter Sherman hardly talked. His papers were mediocre at best. He was no mastermind. The worst Riley could imagine happening was that he really _had _intended to kill her, but would probably chicken out after she talked him down.

Peter Sherman was not a psychopath. _Was she telling herself this to calm down, or was she telling herself the truth? _There were few things that made her frightened—well, one thing, really—and thus she could always rely on her senses to tell her the truth of any situation._ Peter Sherman was not, in any way, a killer. She was not afraid. This would end in her favor. _It would be moderately easy to talk him out of this. But even so, she wasn't taking any chances. That would be foolish.

Peter, still pointing the gun in an overly-threatening way, untied the cloth from her mouth. Riley gasped for breath, heaving in and out in exacerbation. Up close, Peter didn't look nervous or scared; this was a bad sign. She'd expected him to—but he looked as calm as he had sitting in the back of class, watching her with sharp eyes like he always had.

Peter gestured for her to turn around; Riley did so and he cut the restraints off her hands with a razor blade that he pulled from his pocket, pushing her forward a step. She was wearing stilettos and almost stumbled to the ground again. Her legs ached from the hike up the stairs, and she was still winded. She kicked them off her feet as Peter watched suspiciously.

All she had to defend herself were her words—words that she could craft easily into a shield against Peter, words that could talk him out of this—and her cell phone in her back pocket. _Who could she call? _She knew half of the police force and higher-ups- some were even on speed dial—who could trace her call and send a few cops over if she asked for help. She felt guilty bringing them into a situation where they'd be up against someone who was armed; but police were obviously trained for this, and it was her only hope. And even so, Peter seemed hardly the type to shoot an armed officer—then again, he'd hardly seemed the type to kidnap and threaten someone with a gun…

Even with the phone in her back pocket, she couldn't do much without Peter seeing and getting angry. He wasn't a _complete _fool—she knew that much… He'd put some planning into her kidnapping… And he certainly wouldn't let her foil it by making a phone call, even if she pleaded to call someone one last time to say goodbye or something along those lines. It was too risky.

The phone was in her back pocket, easily accessible but impossible to pull out and dial someone's number without Peter seeing. It'd be almost impossible to call for help without looking at the phone and seeing which buttons she needed to press. _Who was the last person that had called her? _She could redial them, and then she wouldn't have to type in any new numbers-

_Sherlock. _Sherlock was the last person who had called her. And like a cowardly fool, she'd ignored him completely because she had been afraid…. She sure wasn't going to drag him into this—_but did she have a choice? _Redialing a missed call was the easiest way to blindly navigate her phone and do so without getting caught…

Riley gulped as Peter backed up a few feet, staring her down intently. She rested both of her hands on the waist of her jeans; it would make the subtle movement to her back pocket much easier. Peter stared at her intently, still holding the gun at her. His hand wasn't shaking; he wasn't afraid. His pupils weren't dilated—he was relaxed. He very much wanted to kill her. Riley took back everything she'd previously thought about him; he wasn't just an angry university student, trying to scare off his professor… He really, _really _wanted this…

"So when you came to talk to me about your paper a few days ago," Riley began casually, "I assume you didn't _really_ come to talk about your paper."  
"No," Peter said, "I came to see if it'd be easier to get you at your office. I know where you live, obviously. But it's kind of a busy neighborhood. Hard to usher someone to my car without making it obvious that you're going against your will.

Riley moved her right hand further towards her back pocket, but she didn't reach for her phone quite yet.

"Talk to me," Riley said calmly. "Just for a little while. Before you kill me. I'll be honest—I'm going to try and change your mind. But I think if you listen to what I have to say… I won't have to do much convincing."

"Sure_,_" Peter said plainly.

"Grant it as a dying wish?" she said, slipping her hand to rest on her back pocket. "Or are you in a rush?"

Peter hesitated. "You're not scared of me," he observed slowly. He was intrigued—_good. _That would make him keep talking for a while.

"What, you think this is the first time I've dealt with a patient who threatened to kill me, or came close to doing so? I've had patients choke me, threaten my life—one even stabbed me with a pencil—"

"_I'm not your damn patient," _Peter hissed.

"Okay," Riley said, remaining calm, "but do you really think this is the first time I've been in a life-threatening situation? I'm _not _afraid, Peter. Especially because I don't think you really want to do this."

He laughed in a quiet, reserved way. She moved her hand to hold the phone now. He stared at her but seemed to have no idea what she was doing, thankfully. She raised her left hand to scratch her face and distract him from her other hand.

"In time you'll understand," Peter said. He looked excited now. It made Riley a bit uneasy. "I'll explain."

Her hand was blindly groping in her pocket, with a heightened sense of urgency now, trying to carefully but desperately navigate the "Recent Calls" menu to call Sherlock.

She hit the "Send Call" button—or what she _hoped _was that button—and waited a few seconds for the ring to pick up. She didn't even know if she'd have service out here, wherever they were. It had only been a twenty-minute car ride. And she didn't know if he'd call her back…

She waited for a bit, mentally keeping track of how long it would take to ring and for him to hopefully pick up. Then she said, with a convincing portrayal of sincerity and sadness, "Peter, please. You don't have to kill me… I can help you, after all. Dragging your professor out to the top floor of an abandoned bathtub factory? This hardly seems like you. Where are we, anyway?"  
"Daisy Imports. My deceased uncle's factory and a good place for someone to die quietly."

_Yes. _That had worked out much better than Riley had expected, though the evenness in his tone as he talked about death made her even more questioning of Peter, who she'd always thought as harmless and cowardly.

"Right. Daisy Imports. Well then. You've been planning this. This obviously goes beyond a grudge against me about the internship. And perhaps I can't talk you out of doing this. But can I at lease try and convince you to get help otherwise."

There it was. Just enough information to get Sherlock going, had he heard her. He could probably figure out her location from there—he certainly could, given that she'd been lucky enough to get the name of the factory- and he'd know she was in trouble because of what she'd said. She'd tried to speak loudly enough for him to hear, but not loudly enough so that Peter would get suspicious. Riley had no way of knowing if Sherlock had picked up the phone and from her calculation, if he hadn't answered, it would've rang three times to go into voicemail and he would've picked up more than half of the conversation in a message. Hopefully Sherlock could get there on time, if he decided to come…

Riley moved her hand to the front now so Peter wouldn't get suspicious.

"There's no point in me getting help," Peter said, "I have all the salvation—all the redemption—that I could want… Or at least I will…"

"Can you explain that, please?" Riley asked gently. She knew he was religious, but… she hardly saw how this was relevant.

He laughed loudly and casually. "You're not in your cozy therapy office," Peter said. "You don't have to beat the information out of me. I'll give it to you so you understand your role in all this. You're mildly intelligent, you deserve at least that much I suppose."

He smiled at her darkly. She needed to regain the upper hand; if she was going to get out, or delay it for long enough for Sherlock to come to her rescue… She needed to stall him. And if he got bored with the conversation he'd just shoot her. She thought he had waited this long because he was nervous, but now she saw that she was just prey that he wanted to play with before swallowing, like a cat clawing at the tail of a mouse. Another bad sign and a strike against her previous thought that he wasn't a killer… or a psychopath…

"You're finding a bit of pleasure in this, aren't you?" Riley asked. Half of it was a defense mechanism; half of it was to gage his reaction.

That hit a nerve—his smile faded, and he looked crestfallen. _It was something else, then. _

"Oh," she said, "so you don't, but—"

"Shut the fuck up," Peter said suddenly, raising the gun again.

"If you were just here to kill me," Riley said, "you would've done it already. So what's stalling you?"  
He slumped a bit, looking less threatening that he had tried to look this entire time. But he had the same pensive look as before, sans smile—he was considering telling her something important again, and this could work to her advantage…

"I can help you, Peter. It's my _job _to help."  
"Bullshit. Look at you-" he cut off suddenly, frowning.

Her jaw dropped a bit in surprise. "What do you mean?"

Peter, again, obviously hadn't meant to reveal that bit of information. If he _had _killed before—and with each passing second, Riley was growing more convinced that he had—he wasn't used to knowing his victims, or talking to them. He was messing up… and by the look on his face, it made him very angry.

"I know all about _that_," Peter said, trying to play off his slip-up and make it seem like he'd said it on purpose. "Which is why this is so perfect…"

He hesitated and lowered his weapon entirely. A very small, devilish smile crept up his face—but mostly he looked pensive, like he was torn between two wonderful decisions.

"Peter," Riley said, "there's no point in _not _telling me, since you'll be, you know, killing me soon. Care to explain?"  
"I overheard a few kids at the library talking about it," he said. "About how you were raped as a teenager. They overheard the story from a professor, who overheard it, and so on… Did you know that everyone on campus knows about what happened, even though you obviously try so hard to hide it?"

Riley was in shock. This really was all news to her—and it was news that made her fists clench, and her eyes water, and her heart burst to flames all at once…

"I didn't know that," she said with forced evenness. "Thanks for telling me."

"And it's obvious from the way you move," Peter continued authoritatively, "I'm surprised more people don't notice. When I grab you, or when anyone gets close to you. Your whole body tenses. You can't look anyone in the eye unless you're trying to get information from them. And you blink when anyone says 'rape' or anything to do with sex. You can't help it—your body rejects it. You can't help _yourself. _How are you going to help _me_?" He paused, and then added firmly, "I don't even _need _help."

_She was like him—and like Sherlock. _He saw things. He _knew _things without learning them or without being told—he just picked up on it. She was sinking in this battle of wits; he was using her weaknesses against her, something she was trying to do to him at the same time. _He was winning—he knew what he was doing. _She hadn't expected any of that. And it made winning this much harder…

"It's my job to help people make the pain go away," Riley said seriously, "and I've done the same for myself, whether you see it or not. I know how you feel. Genuinely. I _don't _know _why _you did this, but… You said yourself, you know that I've experienced trauma. Use your head, Peter. Someone who's been through it can help you get out of it. I _can_ help you."  
Peter thought about this, the gun dropping a bit. His palm twitched. _Maybe it would work—even if only briefly. Maybe he'd give her _something _to work with—something that could turn this conversation around… _

"You push _through_ what's bothering you, rather than working _around _it," Riley offered. He certainly wasn't going to give up any information yet, or ask for help; in her experience, patients who didn't have to do all the talking often felt more comfortable and ended up sharing. "You confront these things so they don't remain a noisy, annoying shadow, clinging to you."  
"_How?_" Peter asked curiously. She could tell he wasn't buying any of it; but maybe if the words sunk in a bit more, they'd resonate more strongly… _If she could stall him for that long…_

"I… Well, from experience…" She hesitated and smiled—she couldn't help herself. "I just… _did_ what I was afraid of. And it scared me while I was doing it."

"You fucked somebody," Peter offered. She tried to control the shudder or tenseness that came with the subject, though it didn't work, and she blinked harshly, just as Peter said.

Riley bit her lip. "Not quite," she said, "but I came close. I ran away before I had the chance—I ran quickly, painfully, begrudgingly… But now that I think on it… and even though doing it made me uncomfortable… I know if I had a second chance, I'd run back towards my fears and stare them down until they were silent, until the went away—until they weren't fears, but something I… I don't know, enjoyed. And I think you have the gumption to do the same, Peter. If you can kidnap your professor—if you can point a gun at someone- you can definitely do that."

Riley had initially meant to use this as a test—to get Peter to talk, which would make it easier to stall him or get him to let her go... But she found herself meaning every word of it… and smiling… and thinking about Sherlock… His floor… _His hands… his mouth—_Oh, _she had made such a mistake. _And it had taken her all of a day or two to realize that the mistake had been _stopping_, not starting it all in the first place…

She had to focus on Peter right now. But she found it difficult—just as she had over the past few weeks—to do so, when every bit of Sherlock seemed to plague her mind and make thinking rationally and intelligently near impossible…**  
**"This gun was just to scare you," Peter said suddenly, breaking through her thoughts, "and obviously that hasn't worked, so…" He tossed it carelessly to the side and it skid across the floor and out of reach of both of them. This conversation was not going the way she wanted to, and apparently Peter had something else in mind for her…

He stood perfectly still and tall, and pulled the razor blade he'd used to untie her out of his pocket. He seemed used to such personal professions as the one she'd just given—it didn't faze him. _Lack of remorse or shame… _one sign of a psychopath. The best way to tell the difference between a psychopath and a killer who still felt something—_anything_—was to give them personal information, as it made them less likely to want to kill. _Had Peter killed before? _The more she observed him, the more it seemed like he was an experienced killer…

He didn't blink or flinch. He caressed the razor blade in his hand, running his finger lightly over the blade. He had no reaction to anything Riley was saying, except excitement over sharing his dark needs and desires with her, because he couldn't share them with anyone else…

No, Peter Sherman _was _a killer. Peter Sherman might even be a psychopath; she had always known his reputation on campus to be that of a superficial, charming jock… Small characteristics of a psychopath, indeed. Riley was starting to believe that he hadn't just gone through all this trouble because of a grudge against her. He was so interested in her trauma… and he obviously wanted to talk about it… _was he going to…_

"Now that there isn't a huge wall between us," she said, glancing at the gun and trying to calmly gain some power over him again, "would you like to tell me what has traumatized you? I know there's _something_. What drove you to think you might find some sort of retribution or peace in killing me, the professor that teased you and deprived you of—"

She cut off suddenly. _No. That wasn't why he was killing her. _He knew _she_ was traumatized. He had made it a point to bring it up to her. At first Riley bought his story about overhearing student gossip; but now she thought it might be something else…

Her trauma hadn't been in the papers or police records. But she _had _gone to a psychologist—who was, in fact, a professor at the same university she currently taught at… And who had anonymously used her case information in a study that students at the university probably studied… A case study that was anonymous but public information… _No._ _There was no way her students knew. _This was something else… Peter had _investigated _her…

Peter Sherman was the serial killer that Sherlock had been hunting for the last few weeks—the one whose crime scene she'd tagged along to… The one that had seemed so elusive… _Peter Sherman was a psychopath. And a serial killer. _

"Ah, so you've figured it out, huh?" Peter said. She must've had a look of revelation on her face, because he was smirking as though pleased with himself. "I'm surprised it took you this long."

"It makes sense to me now," Riley said. She supposed most things did in the end—if this was the end. "Me, traumatized, and your pattern… _And _you don't seem to like me very much, so I suppose that doesn't hurt…"

"Yeah, and once I realized you and your darling Sherlock were hot on my trail… I knew I had to take you out."

"And when did you realize that?" Riley asked in surprise. She hadn't been on his trail at all—she'd just now realized who he was.  
"I thought it was when he came to visit your class," Peter explained. "Y'know, the one where you two practically jumped each other's bones. I thought he was scouting me. Yeah, I know about _him_—don't look so surprised. I stumbled across his website, looking for clues and advice about how to avoid getting caught. Wasn't very helpful."

Riley shuddered. _How did he know all this? _Did she

"So I suppose you're going to kill him next," she said softly. _She had to know…_

"Yes, probably. He's tricky—he'll see it coming more than _you _did, he's less trusting—but I'll make it work."  
_No. Don't get emotional. Peter will just enjoy this more if you do. Sherlock can handle it… he'll save himself… He's smarter than you are and he's smart enough to see this coming, especially if he got the voicemail—_

"Don't cry, Professor," Peter said with a laugh, "you two will be together, just in another place!"

Riley wiped the small tear from her eye. She hadn't realized she was crying; she had tried so hard not to, because she knew Peter would feed off of it... _No… She couldn't bear the thought… _

"Well, you fooled me," Riley said shakily. "Yes, you did. The woman you hung? I thought the person who murdered her knew her personally. It all made sense. You fooled me."  
"Good on me," he said enthusiastically.

"You should be more careful, though," Riley said. "The police are catching on. You're slipping up, Peter. All serial killers inevitably fall."  
"What do you mean? How are they catching on? Who did they investigate—which one of them? They don't normally put that much effort into suicides—I make sure that they look authentic, and—"

"Well, the woman you hung was the first one. And then there was the girl with the bleach. You took the bottle away from the scene. How could a suicide victim throw away their weapon of choice if they were already dead?"  
Peter swore loudly and tugged at his hair. He shook his hands up at the sky and swore again; it echoed all around the factory before the pair fell to silence again.

"The bottle kept slipping out of my hands when I wore the leather gloves I have," he said. "I had to take my gloves off, and I didn't want them to fingerprint it. Oh God, oh my God—"  
"I can't help but wonder if your heart's really in this," Riley said weakly. "If you keep—"  
She cut off as she watched Peter stroking his blade. It was stupid of her to even ask, even if the question had just been a stall tactic and a last, desperate attempt to convince herself that this all wasn't happening… That it _couldn't _be happening, and that she hadn't been stupid enough to miss all this in the first place…

"How does it work, Peter?" Riley asked, trying to stall and distract herself from feeling scared. It was getting harder and harder to remain calm, and she didn't want Peter to see her as vulnerable. "The people you kill are always far from home with no signs of struggle or force. How do you get them here?"  
Peter was smiling now; she tried to sound genuinely interested, even though she was getting more and more nervous that she truly wasn't going to make it out of this alive… She was stalling, praying that help would come… _Should she try to call someone else?_ No, it was too risky… all she could do was bide her time. But as she did so, she got more and more upset and nervous, and she found it hard to try and gain an upper hand when she realized Peter was a killer…

"I'll assume you start by threatening them with the gun," Riley said.

"Yup," Peter said calmly. "People get afraid when you shove it in their face, obviously. And they think it's just a mugging. Not you, apparently. Do you know why I took you here? Why I _really _took you here? Go ahead, analyze a bit."  
"I thought you were angry with me about the internship or your paper," she said. "But as you brought me here and started talking to me, I knew it was beyond that. I thought I reminded you of someone from your childhood and you were trying to rid yourself of this trauma by killing me. But now I realize... I fit as a vendetta _and _with your pattern—a victim with a _reason _that wouldn't seem too far-fetched for them to take their own life."

"Which is why this is so perfect," Peter said. "You fit my criteria, _and _who I could actually _enjoy _killing."

"So you don't enjoy this otherwise?"

Peter frowned—it was yet another slip up of information. Riley threw her hands up in the air in surrender—she could come back to this once he was warmed up and more willing to share.

"Okay, okay," she said. "We can start small. Tell me what you want to share and nothing more. How do you choose your victims? Do you look them up in the old papers? Or police databases?"

"They're not victims," Peter said firmly.

"But you make them look like they're victims of suicide."  
"I'm—" he cut himself off and started pacing nervously. He was learning from his mistakes, and rather quickly…

She needed more information—and more time. But he was still hesitant to tell her. Did he have second thoughts about killing her? Or did he just have trouble opening up? _She knew how the latter felt…_

"Why do you make it look like an accident? It can't be just so no one investigates."  
"You're curious?" he asked. "You really want to know?"  
She nodded, trying to calculate how much time it had been since she'd called Sherlock. It definitely wouldn't be long enough for someone to come help her. She needed to keep stalling…

"You might as well tell me," Riley said with forced calm. "Again, I won't be able to tell anyone. And I'm curious. You're dying to get all this off your chest—to have an audience. Well, here I am."

Peter hesitated, contemplating just what and how much he should tell. But a smile crept up onto his mildly handsome face, and Riley knew she was right—keeping all this in his own head was driving him mad, and it was probably making it harder to control his urge to kill.

"Nobody would've thought… Peter Sherman, the pre-med student at university with perfect grades…"

"I wouldn't say perfect," Riley responded dryly, "I grade your papers, remember."

He ignored this. "Peter Sherman, with charm and the perfect girlfriend, and the preacher father and religious upbringing…"

_Religious upbringing. _There it was— now she understood…

"Religious upbringing?" Riley asked. "And how does your girlfriend feel about your new hobby? Or your father? Or God?"

He turned suddenly and shot her a dark look. She'd struck a nerve—but he hadn't attacked, and she knew if he would, it'd happen right away. Instead he shook a finger at her again.

"Don't do that," he said. "There's no use trying to make me feel guilty. You're just going to die anyway. Why do you care what happens next or if I stop?"

"How many people have you killed?" Riley asked.

"Six. You'll be lucky number seven."

Riley sighed. "Why cases from a few years ago? Why not anything fresh in the news?"  
"Nobody's watching them now," he said.

"Why trauma cases?"

"They've suffered long enough."

"And what do you mean by that?"  
He looked at her hesitantly. He didn't want to go any further—a small twitch of a smile indicated that he did… She'd have to drag it out of him.

"It's not your choice who should live or die," Riley said, "whether or not you deem their life too traumatic, unsettling or miserable for them to carry on. You're not putting anyone out of their misery, Peter. You're _playing _God, not doing what he'd want you to do."  
"He told me!" Peter yelled suddenly. "He told me—that this was what I could do to help!"

_Oh God. _Peter composed himself very quickly after this outburst; he straightened the collar of his shirt and stood taller, staring Riley down. Patients with illusions of grandeur like this always unsettled Riley the most, and they were often the most difficult to help. There was no way Riley could reverse or break down Peter's beliefs in these few moments they'd have together before she—_no, help was coming… She _had _to believe that help was coming… The alternative was too unsettling…_

"So is that why you were upset about the internship?" Riley asked. "You wanted to help people who were like you, who used religion—or who were distressed by it—to cope with trauma in their lives?"

"It was my last chance to do this a normal way," Peter said. "God was getting impatient. Telling me that the sick and traumatized were waiting for salvation from the chains of their pain—and it was _my _job to help them. And God kept telling me… 'put these people out of their misery…'"

"And what misery within yourself couldn't you cure, Peter?"  
Peter's head snapped up to her and he stopped pacing. He looked startled, as if to beg the question _how could you possibly know?_

"It's my job to know these things, Peter," Riley said sympathetically. "What misery caused you so much pain that you couldn't find the strength to try and push through it? What made you take it out on others?"

"Shut the fuck up," Peter said darkly. He started pacing again.

"Taking someone else's life isn't a decision you should be making," Riley said. "Surely that's not what God meant—"

"Yes, it is."

"I still don't understand, Peter," Riley pleaded.

"I don't expect you to."  
"Why don't you explain it to me? In your own words?"

"Suicide is a sin in religion. But it's the only way to escape the trauma of your past. What deductions can you make about that, _professor?"_

Riley frowned. She still had no idea what had happened to him—something to do with religion, obviously, but she still wasn't quite clear.

"Well, murder is also a sin, Peter," Riley reminded, "so you're in a bit of a pickle there. And you're too smart not to realize that no matter how much pain you think you relieve from these people by doing what you're doing, you won't be going to Heaven for this."

"That's my cross to bear!" he yelled. "I'm going to Hell so they—so they don't have to suffer, and they can go to Heaven themselves! So _they _don't take their lives—I can… I can… It's so _you _don't have to suffer… So you won't… He promised… _He_ _promised_…"  
Peter sunk to his knees. Riley stepped forward slowly, but Peter's head snapped up and he brandished the blade towards her. He wiped his eyes quickly before he rose again though embarrassed, backing up another foot or so away from Riley.

"Something happened to you," Riley began softly. "Something traumatic, obviously—dealing with your religion, or your religious father specifically. And it drove you to almost commit suicide, and to thinking that it was the only way out… But you won't do it. So this is some… sort of salvation, according to God? Out of a misplaced sense of justice? Because you don't want to sin against yourself, and—"

She cut herself off when Peter stepped towards her, blade in hand, obviously growing impatient. Riley stepped back quickly; Peter grinned automatically and Riley found herself reminded of his remarks before about _enjoying _killing her…

Peter glared at her and started pacing again. Riley was still counting the minutes until she had to give up hope of anyone coming to rescue her. What if the call had gone to Sherlock's voicemail? What if he was occupied, and didn't see the message until later? _What if he hadn't even gotten the call at all? _

"You just want to help _yourself_," Riley said. "And to do to others what you wish you could do yourself, but you can't because of your religion. You want to free others from the chains of _your _trauma. It doesn't quite work like that, Peter. And I'm sure there's some impulse here that you can't control, too. A desire to kill. A _need _to kill. You don't want to kill me. You don't _want_ to kill _anybody_— you just won't kill yourself." She paused, then added, "what happened, Peter? Did you father hurt you?"

"I'm not a child," Peter said. "You don't have to use sensitive words. He beat the shit out of me. My dad, a priest who everyone viewed as a goddamn saint, beat the shit out of me as a kid because his wife wanted to adopt me and he didn't. Because he was a frigid bastard who wanted no kids and nothing to do with her, and she wasn't. And she loved him. Is it really so hard to believe I've got a distorted sense of how religion works?"

"At least you recognize that it's distorted, Peter. Don't you think that means there's some hope that you can—"

"Shut the fuck up!" he shrieked suddenly. He quickly picked up the gun and pointed it at her; she raised her hands in defeat, tears welling in her eyes. He dropped the razor blade and pushed it with his foot in her direction. This was it. He was done waiting.

"You're very smart, Peter," Riley said sadly. "Smarter than I gave you credit for. Too smart for your age, even. But this… this is not _smart, _Peter. This is not _logical. _You are causing more harm than good."

"So what, you want to help me? Fix me? You can't _fix _trauma, I don't care what _you_ or _anyone else_ says. You don't _escape _it. It _follows _you. It is a poison. _Life _is a _poison. _A poison that kills you soft and slow. It draws out your pain and makes it cut deeper. I know the remedy: get out before it takes you."

"_He _chooses that, though," Riley said, "and you believe in Him, in some way. You're going against His will. God is death. He decides-"

"He told me to do this!" Peter screamed. "Just—shut up! _This is His mission!" _

"Everything's a trauma," Riley said. "It's subjective. What affects you in one way has no effect on someone else and vice versa, Peter. If you learned anything from my class, I had hoped it would be that everything's subjective. Nothing, not even science or psychology, is concrete."

"It's a little late to worry about my education," Peter said.

Riley sighed. "That's the point, Peter. It's not. It never is."

"And if everything's so subjective," he argued, "how can you say this is wrong? How can you say I'm wrong—that _He's _wrong, just because it's now how He usually—"

"Because I don't think this has anything to do with Him," Riley said. "I think you enjoy this and you're using God as an excuse. I see it in the way you smile."

That was it—the last, harshest nerve that she could possibly strike. He moved towards her, the gun pointed at her forehead as he pointed to the razor blade with his free hand.

"Pick up the razor blade," Peter said firmly. "Now."  
"You don't want to do it yourself?"  
"No," he said. "I want to watch you make yourself bleed. You're not worthy of the salvation I gave the others… You'll do it yourself."  
"Is that your call or God's?"  
"Fuck you," Peter said. "_Pick up the razor blade."_

"Your fingerprints are all over it," she said.

"Don't worry," Peter said coolly, "I'll take care of that when you're gone."

Riley bent down and picked up the razor blade in her hand. As soon as she touched the cool metal, a chill ran down her spine. She shivered as she walked, barefoot, over to the tub, her back to Peter. _What was he going to make her do? Could she even do it to herself—or would she have to take over? _He could shoot her at any second and make this easy on her, but he wouldn't. He was too angry… too…_pleased _by all this… Too convinced that he was right…

There had been so many times in her life where she had wanted to do this… So many times she'd had her weapon of choice ready, only to talk herself out of it or drink herself into a numb state where she was too trashed to actually do the deed… She'd been here so many times, a weapon in hand, ready to go… and she didn't think it would scare her this much. But somehow now, after everything she'd been through… _After how hard she'd recently pushed herself to get through everything… _After how good it had felt to get close to being on the other side…

After she'd enjoyed another person's touch, even if she'd run away from it… After the poison that had once made her want to die had brought her life, even if only for the shortest second on the floor of a strange, wonderful man's flat on Christmas Eve…

_Sherlock…_

She tripped as she headed towards the cleaner of the ceramic bathtubs nearby, catching her balance on the rim of the tub.

"Take your clothes off," Peter said.

Riley turned her head and her cheek was greeted by the cold end of the gun. She couldn't see Peter; but she was crying now, quietly and ashamedly, trying to control herself. But there was no point. This was over… There was nothing she could do…

"_Please," _she begged. "Not—"

"Do as I say," Peter said. "_Now._"

Riley unbuttoned her white blouse slowly and shrugged it off. She felt a hand dig into her back pocket; normally she would've shied away from whoever tried to touch her, but this was different, and there was no use. She heard a crash as the phone smashed into the floor after Peter threw it.

"Go on," Peter urged. He stepped back. _At least he wasn't going to… To touch her, and make it worse… _

She unbuttoned her bra, remembering the last time she'd done so in front of someone… _She'd left it there, at his apartment… _She had hoped the next time she had to do this, it would be with someone else… But life had a different plan for her, apparently—or, at least, Peter did—and now she was facing her death in the form of a clean, white bathtub and a razor blade, and she was shedding the barrier between her and the cold world that had made her so easy to break…

She was naked now, and the gun nudged at her bare back, ushering her to get in. A shiver ran down her spine.

"What difference does it make if I'm here or on the floor?" she asked.

"I don't want to risk getting any blood on me," Peter said simply. Tears gathered in her eyes. Peter Sherman, a student at university, was going to make her kill herself. This was not a mission from God—he enjoyed this.

"Please," Riley begged. _I'm not quite finished with this life yet, even though I thought I was so many times before..._

"You of all people should be able to figure out that pleading won't do any good," Peter said as she stepped over the tub and slunk down into it. She brought her knees to her chest, holding them close to cover herself. The moonlight cast a shadow of her body across the tub as she lay in it, loosely holding the razor blade.

"_Please,_" she begged, "I really can help you make the pain more tolerable. It won't go away. But it won't hurt as much."

"No," Peter said firmly. "That's what _I'm _doing for _you _right now."

"You've got it all wrong," Riley said. "Please…"

Tears streamed freely down her face now- _there was no sense in hiding them now. No sense in thinking they were a ploy to garner his sympathy; he truly had none. _She sobbed loudly and uncontrollably, her hands shaking as she tried to hold herself steady.

"Don't l-lie to yourself," Riley sobbed, "and say that this is about salvation. _Please_. If you're going to b-be a sinner… at least be an honest one. You enjoy this, Peter. You really do."

Peter said nothing, but Riley heard a thud on the ground and assumed he'd dropped the gun. He crouched down besides her; a moon cast half his face in a shadow, but from the half that was lit up, she could see that he wasn't smiling now—he was frowning.

"Salvation makes me happy," he said, "and there's some for me and some for you in all this."

"I don't want to do this," she whispered. "You're making me. You're not _helping_ me. Please, Peter—"  
"Stop _begging_," he said tightly, "_stop. _It's not going to _work." _

He clenched her wrist firmly and started to move it towards her other wrist. She was holding the razor blade at an awkward angle, and her hand was shaking, but Peter held it tightly so it stopped.

He brought the blade down on her skin and she moaned as it cut her; she dropped it out of her hand involuntarily as blood began to seep out, spilling down her arm…

She huffed out a great sigh and Peter backed up to look down on her. She closed her eyes; this wasn't what she wanted to see if she was going to die… Not his face, half bright and half dark…

"The other arm," a voice cooed, and Riley felt a small pressure on her chest, where Peter had dropped the blade. She had sprawled out know, her legs straight and her entire body exposed. She couldn't move her body—it all happened voluntarily. She was too weak already. When she opened her eyes, she felt dizzy, but Peter had crouched down again and had placed the blade on her chest.

"Will you leave me in peace when it's done?" she asked weakly, each word taking twice as much effort to say as she was starting to bleed everywhere.

Peter laughed. "Sure."  
Riley closed her eyes tightly and raised the blade to her other arm. She couldn't do this. She couldn't… She couldn't…

_All your other options are exhausted… It'll go more quickly this way… Less painful—and if there is a God, like Peter seems so convinced, I think he'll be a bit forgiving of the gray area in this particular sin… Maybe he'll be gentle when he ushers you in to the Pearly Gates—if that's what it looks like… Maybe it'll be a black hole, like it looks now with your eyes shut… Just do it…_

Riley heard this voice echoing in her head but found it hard to listen to and swallow. She felt a tight grasp around the hand that clutched the blade, and then a numb pressure in her other wrist. _There. She didn't have to do it at all—Peter had done it for her._ All the pressure was relieved, and the razor blade slipped out of her hand_. It was done._

Riley heard another voice then—one she couldn't decipher—but it was shouting angrily. She heard a commotion from far away, like glass breaking into a thousand pieces, the noise traveling slowly to her ears and reminding her of how her body felt—slowly falling apart, a once-whole sheet of glass now shattered and cascading in thousands of crystallized, sharp bits left to lay helplessly in a broken heap… And there was so much noise…

"Seneca, Peter… do you remember that class?" Riley asked weakly. "'Many things have fallen only to rise higher…'"

"_Riley…" _a distant voice echoed curiously. It sounded stifled and quiet; she barely heard it. Riley hadn't expected Peter to answer her; but she now understood the sentimentality of death, of wanting her last words—even if they would be unknown to anyone but this psychopath, Peter Sherman—to be something personal, something beautiful and hopeful, in spite of the fact that she was lying in a tub, in an abandoned factory, covered in her own blood…

Riley's body felt numb and every inch of her skin prickled from the loss of blood, like her body was being crushed under an enormous weight. Her wrist fell to her side as the blood began to gather in the tub, soaking her nude body… She kept her eyes closed—she didn't want to see the awful sight… No, she wanted to die imagining something much different—something happy… _The person she wanted to see—she could see him now, maybe… If she just closed her eyes, and…_

_"Riley…!"_

She didn't know about any Pearly Gates, or a kingdom nestled on a cloud in Heaven, but she imagined if it were a feeling and not a place, it would quite feel like her back rubbing against the floor, underneath the one strange, wonderful man she'd come to trust for a reason that was beyond her comprehension or explanation… _Sherlock… _It would feel like skin on skin, hot and heavy, dark and light, silent in words but noisy in an almost orgasmic thought…

She heard his voice now—calling softly, and she knew that she was right: it was a feeling, not a place… Her wrists stung a bit but she knew that touch—his hands. Big, rough, but… patient. She felt his gentle touch, lifting her up, beckoning her…

_"I'm going to carry you out," _his voice cooed now, almost in her ear. _She was close—she could feel it. _She was being lifted upwards, and it felt like she was being pulled out of her body. _And he was guiding her to her new home…_

_"_Sherlock," she whispered, as she felt her body moving up and down and sideways and forwards and backwards all at once, safe in what she knew _must _be his arms—ready to go to the Pearly Gates, or whatever place she'd go next—

"_Riley," _his voice cooed.

She had no idea if she was speaking aloud or in the framework of her mind—a place where she'd faltered with bravery before. But she was allowing herself a single moment of dying (or already deceased) valor—a conclusion, a forward march out of the trenches of a lifetime of abuse, and a declaration that she had, quite literally, made it out on the other side, even if only momentarily and even if she hadn't appreciated it in said moment…. _And if she had a chance to do it again… If she could just cling to life for one more day—one more hour—to do one more thing… _

"Do you think we could…." she mumbled.

_"Please, continue," _the voice begged softly after she had dropped off. It sounded as gentle as his touch felt… "_I want to hear…_"  
She felt herself smiling broadly, stupidly, unashamedly. She tried to open her eyes, and they fluttered momentarily before she felt weak and dizzy and shut them again.

_"Please. No silence. Not right now." _

She felt herself smiling still, rushing up and down and side-to-side again, but then all was still and she felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

"You still… haven't…. let me… make you… dinner."

And there it was: her final moment of bravery, her true last words if she had been strong enough to say them aloud. Riley heaved a sigh of relief. She was dead—she knew she had to be. She heard no angels singing. She heard no noise at all, actually. She saw no flash of white light; no Pearly Gates, no greater being waiting to greet her…

But she swore, even in her moment of death, that she felt Sherlock's hands wrapped around her small, bleeding body, carrying her to Heaven—or wherever she went beyond this life—and Riley couldn't help but smile.


	10. Life and Death

**Sherlock stared at Riley for a moment. She was laying perfectly still in a pool of her own blood… ****_Smiling… _**

**He had seen worse- people with bashed-in heads, limbs entirely removed… But somehow… Thiswas worse. ****_It's because you like- no, _****love****_-her, and have feelings for her- no… _**

**He knelt at her side, his hands trembling as he reached out for her… He could tell that she was still breathing from looking at her. Even so, he put a hand over her bare chest- feeling enormously guilty for touching her- and felt her faint, slow heartbeat. **

**"Riley," he whispered softly. He looked more closely and now he ****_saw_**** that she was still breathing, her chest heaving slightly as she inhaled and exhaled. ****_She was smiling…_****_She even looked like she was at peace… Like she'd just fallen asleep… _**** But she was completely naked, and Sherlock knew she couldn't be at peace like that… ****_Peter… That bastard… _****He was lucky he'd chosen to jump out a window, because Sherlock would've done much worse to him, knowing now what he'd done to Riley. **

**Her two wrists were cut diagonally across, deep enough to cause severe bleeding but not at an angle that slit any major arteries. She was laying in a pool of her own blood, her back and underside completely soaked. **

**Sherlock knew the symptoms of shock: chest pains… Dizziness… Shortness of breath… Feeling weak or nauseous… But he'd never felt them before now. He breathed in deep, trying to concentrate. ****_You have to focus or she will die. You have to do something, or she will bleed out. She won't even make it to the ambulance alive if you don't do something… _**

**Sherlock kicked aside the razor blade; he didn't want it near the two of them. He gently moved Riley's arms at a position that would help slow down the bleeding. Her clothes lay in a heap nearby; he picked up her white shirt quickly, twisting the fabric into a thin strip to cover one wrist. He took off his scarf and did the same to the other wrist, before pressing down on both of her wrists light enough to avoid causing her pain, but hard enough to stop the bleeding. He had to get her outside to the ambulance- but he couldn't let her bleed out before they got there… **

**"Riley…" he cooed again, working quickly to stop the bleeding. The bandaging was done on her wrists and she lay naked, soaked in at least an inch of her own blood. ****_How much had she lost? _****Sherlock tried to calculate it just by looking at her, but he couldn't tell because he didn't know how long she'd been bleeding out. He took off his overcoat. ****_She didn't deserve to have others see her like this… She didn't deserve to die like this… No. She couldn't die. She couldn't…_**

**Sherlock was careful to avoid slipping in the bloody mess that was on the floor from her wrist as he leaned over the tub and lifted her up. He held underneath her arms to try and stand her up. She was limp and unconscious, but still breathing. He wrapped the coat around her body; it drowned her out… ****_She was so small… _**

**"I'm going to carry you out," he explained to her, though he wasn't convinced that she could still hear him. After she was wrapped in his coat, he scooped her up gently in his arms, tucking one arm under the bend in her knees and using his other arm to support her head and back. Her head rolled into his shoulder, and he pulled her close to his chest, trying to adjust her arms so they weren't dangling down and bleeding out more. Sherlock moved forward, jogging as quickly as he could without having her body slide around in his arms too much.**

**"Sherlock," she whispered. **

**He stopped dead in his tracks at the edge of the stairwell. ****_She couldn't be unconscious if she was speaking… _****But she was definitely at the border between these two states of being- ****_or she was at the border of life and death- _****and he had to get her help quickly, so he continued rushing down the stairs.**

**"Riley," he answered. He couldn't utter another word; he was still shaking. ****_Talk to me. Please. I… I want to tell you I love you… _**

**She was ****_still_**** smiling, limp in his arms. He wanted to stop and allow himself a brief moment to stare; even now, wrapped in his coat and half alive, she was so beautiful… ****_Especially when she smiled…_**** But Sherlock knew every moment was precious, and he started running down the stairs more quickly now, holding her close as the blood that soaked her skin dripped onto the stairs. **

**"Do you... think… we could…"**

**He looked down at her again, carefully but quickly sprinting down the stairs. They were halfway there- he could hear shuffling footsteps, sirens and murmurs downstairs… **

**"Please, continue," he begged, while they were still alone. "I want to hear…"**

**She was silent for the next two flights of stairs. They were just one away from the bottom now. Sherlock held her closer, feeling the warmth of her body even through his thick coat.**

**"Please," he begged again, "no silence. Not right now…" ****_Stay with me… I love you… _**

But she was _still_ smiling, her head tilted and nestled into her shoulder like she'd done so on purpose. Sherlock moved his arms further under her legs and around her back. They were at the second floor, and Sherlock heard the voices and footsteps of police officers below. He wanted another moment alone with her, in case it was… _No, it wasn't their last moment. It couldn't be… It wouldn't be… _

"You still… haven't… let me… make you dinner."

Sherlock laughed and it echoed throughout the abandoned factory. _You crazy woman. You're bleeding out in my arms, an inch from death, and that's what you're thinking of? _

_That…. that is why I love you. _

Stray tears gathered in his eyes and he pulled her legs closer to his chest, and he shuffled his other arm so that her head was closer to his cheek.

"_Jesus Christ_," a familiar voice interrupted as finally landed at the ground floor. Sherlock looked up suddenly to see Lestrade, surrounded by officers who were lowering their guns once they recognized Sherlock. "What happened?"

Sherlock held Riley closer, as though these men were also about to hurt her. He couldn't help but be protective of her, after learning all about her past and the things that people had done to hurt her before…

Lestrade turned around, back towards the police cars, and started barking orders at everyone around him. But Sherlock couldn't hear him; he was looking down at Riley, rushing her out towards the ambulance, completely out of breath…

"Hand her over," a voice said firmly as Sherlock moved through the empty space between the factory and the road. Sherlock's head snapped up to see a few doctors standing around a gurney. Three police cars faced the factory, and the officers were either swarming the building or standing around Peter's dead body. The cab he'd taken to the factory was still waiting, talking to an officer about his involvement in the night's events, and no doubt talking about how he'd seen Peter's body flying out the window.

"No," he said, "I want- I need to…" Before he could protest further, the body was being lifted out of his arms and onto a gurney, as two medical technicians raced her towards the ambulance to take care of her wounds.

Sherlock followed the gurney, trying to hold her hand but finding it difficult as they ran along towards the ambulance. One of the technicians pushed him away gently and put her up on the gurney. Sherlock felt a hand on his back.

"We got him," Lestrade said as Sherlock turned to face him. "He fell out the window. Can you tell us what-"

"Not now," Sherlock said firmly, "I have to go with her to the hospital."

"No," Lestrade said, "you're the only witness at a major crime scene and you just happened to lead us here, you need to tell us if you-"

"He probably pushed him out the window," Donovan piped up from behind Sherlock, "don't let him-"

**"****_No, _****I didn't****_," _****Sherlock hissed. He climbed into the ambulance and the two technicians shut the door and zoomed off before anyone could detain him or question him further about what was happening.**

They removed Sherlock's coat from Riley's body, and Sherlock wanted to vomit. He had never been repulsed by the sight of a naked body, or by blood… _This was why he'd always knew caring wasn't an advantage- it distracted from the practicality of patient care, and…_

_Who was he kidding? _Riley wasn't a patient or a body he'd study at the morgue. _And least he hoped she wouldn't end up there…_ She was flesh and blood- _a lot of blood, spilling out her wrists, right now- _she was a _person, _a person he… _Loved_…

He looked away from her body. "Can you tell us anything about what happened?" one of the two technicians asked.

"All I know is she called for help," Sherlock said, "and I found her location, and when I got there, that kid- Peter Sherman's his name, he was her student- he jumped out the window, and I found her like that in a bathtub, and-"

One of the technicians was cleaning and re-wrapping her wrists; the other was hooking her up to various wires to monitor her health. "Anything of _medical _value," one of them said dryly.

**So this was what it felt like to be on the receiving end of impatient, apathetic behavior. ****_Didn't they know how much she meant to him? That he- that he loved her? _****That she was delicate… Special… Worthy of the very best care, and worthy of compassion… **

**He couldn't remember the details of what had happened just moments ago. How much blood had she lost? How big was the razor blade? What time had she called him… How long had it been between the last time he'd heard her speak on the phone and the time he'd found her there? **

Normally, these details would've been at the forefront of his mind. But somehow, his mind was clouded and he felt like he was in a dizzy haze. Sherlock moved closer to the gurney now and reached slowly for Riley's hand. He expected to be swatted away by the technicians, who were now trying to clean off the blood that soaked her body. But the female technician just looked at him with mild compassion, and she let him stay. Sherlock wrapped his fingers through hers, careful not to twist her wrist in a way that might damage it.

**"There was a razor blade there, about three inches in length… The bathtub had a layer of blood in it… I obviously wrapped her with my scarf and her shirt to try and stop the bleeding. I'm sorry, but can you cover her? Please?"**

**The man looked apologetically at Riley's unconscious body and put a thin blanket over her body, but he left her arms exposed so they could continue to treat her. Sherlock didn't want to look at her like that anymore against her will; and he didn't want the two technicians to, either. The man put Sherlock's bloodied coat in a small heap to the side before he looked at some of the monitors to which Riley was hooked up.**

**Sherlock hadn't even looked over these two technicians with a critical eye… He hadn't tried to deduce anything about their lives from their appearance or their mannerisms… ****_This is what she did to him. She made the chaos in his head go numb- she made it all silent._**** Sherlock looked at the pair now and just saw a tall, thin man and a short, plump girl who looked rather annoyed as she wrapped white gauze around Riley's wrists. He saw no nuanced details that might reveal an occupation or other detail about their life. He just saw two people trying to save Riley's life...**

Sherlock listened to her heartbeat on the monitor. It was slow and soft, and slowing down with each passing moment. It was then overshadowed by the noise of the sirens as the doors of the ambulance burst open, and more doctors and technicians helped lower the gurney and asked the two doctors on the ambulance what happened.

Sherlock looked down at Riley, who looked so pale and exhausted... _But somehow she still had the faintest smile on her face… _He refused to let go of her hand and pushed doctors out of his way as they rolled down the hallway, towards a private room in the intensive care unit.

"…Suicide attempt," Sherlock overheard one of the ambulance technicians saying, "slit her wrists with a razor blade, but we have them bandaged, and-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "it was attempted murder." The doctors glanced at him in disbelief, but Sherlock didn't feel compelled to explain further.

"What are you standing around for?" he barked. "She needs blood- a lot of it. Go on."

He moved past everyone and took her hand again. No one tried to remove him from her side, and they worked around Sherlock as they hooked her up to a heart monitor and other machines. Bags of blood were being brought in as they set up the intravenous administration.

"…Jesus, she lost so much…"

The voices of the doctors around him sounded like whispers, but Sherlock was too preoccupied by Riley. Her chest rose up and down very slowly… _She was still breathing…_ He occasionally turned around to glance at the heart monitor; she was barely there, and the slow, quiet beepsmade him uneasy as they echoed in his ears…

"…Covered in it… What happened…"

Riley looked like she was dreaming, laying under a think white sheet that was already drenched in the wet blood that still clung to her body. Sherlock had never watched a woman sleeping before, and he wished it had been under different circumstances- because watching her, smiling and asleep, would've been wonderful were it not happening right now, when she was clinging on for dear life…

Sherlock knew she was far away, dreaming hopefully about something splendid… He hoped that when she dreamed of him, or something pleasant, and he hopes she would wake up soon to see him there waiting for her. And he hoped that she would forgive him for what he'd done, and recognize all he'd done afterwards to try and save her. Because if she didn't… He didn't know if he'd ever feel like this again._ And he had finally came to the conclusion that it wasn't a bad thing. _

And just as the twitching smile on her face started to fade into a passive glance, like she was still a million miles away but no longer dreaming of pleasant things, her heartbeat fell flat and everyone in the room turned to look at her. And Sherlock's hand slipped out of hers as they prepared the chargers to revive her.


	11. Touching and Feeling

When Riley opened her eyes, she was still laying in a bathtub and was momentarily convinced that she had just regained consciousness in the abandoned factory; yet when she observed her surroundings, she knew she was in a different place…

Yes. She was definitely in a different place… A strange place… The bathtub she was in was filled to the brim with water, and a thin layer of purple carnation flowers lined the top so she couldn't see her body below. And she was in the middle of Sherlock Holmes's living room, on the very spot that they'd almost…

Riley quickly lifted her wrists from the water and glanced at them; they were unscathed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. _Was this a dream? _Riley wasn't a lucid dreamer, and she'd never been in a dream in which she _knew _she was asleep, but maybe because she was dying and unconscious it was different, and she had an heightened sense of self-awareness… _Or maybe this wasn't a dream at all… And maybe she was dead already…_

The living area of Sherlock's flat looked exactly the same as it had when she'd visited, minus the Christmas tree and decorations- and there was also a plethora of purple carnation petals scattered across the floor. It was bright outside, and white light burst through the windows, casting long, pleasant shadows across the floor and the bathtub. She found herself almost laughing at the overhyped sensuality of it all, but she couldn't deny that it was beautiful, even though it felt very intimate, and normally that would scare her…

_"_It's okay," a voice cooed softly, "you're safe."

Riley's head snapped towards the doorway, where Sherlock stood. He was dressed in his overcoat, looking amused at her current state in the bathtub. She shuffled uncomfortably and some of the water spilled over onto the floor.

"I'm dreaming," Riley said matter-of-factly. "Or am I dead? In Heaven?"

Sherlock smiled at her. "Last time we were here, you left in a state of anxiety and misery. And now you think this is Heaven?"

She folded her hands underneath the layer of flowers, trying to conceal as much of herself as she could. Sherlock took off his coat and hung it on a hook near the doorway. He took off his suit jacket, too, and rolled up the sleeves of his white collared shirt. He looked… _good. _His hair was tousled as always, and he was wearing a suit- again, as always- but something about him looked much different than before… _Maybe she was just looking at him through a more experienced set of eyes…_

"Do you even believe in Heaven?" he added suddenly. Riley considered this as he took a step towards her, his hands in his pockets. She remembered the conversation she'd just had with Peter: _I'm going to hell so they don't have to suffer, _he'd said, _and they can go to Heaven themselves…_

"I don't know," Riley said weakly. "Where else could I be? I don't really think this is Hell."

"A few weeks ago you probably would've said otherwise."

Riley considered this. _He was right. _She was naked and vulnerable in front of a man- a man she cared about, which almost made it worse, and certainly made her more nervous… _But she knew Sherlock… She… She really liked him…_

Sherlock moved closer now, the bright light from outside illuminating his face. He knelt down next to the bathtub, smiling gently.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"I feel… whole," Riley said. "But strange."

"Whole?" he asked.

"I don't know how else to explain it."

"Well, you're not scared."

"No," she agreed, "I'm not."

"And you're not running in the other direction."

"No," she said. "But I suppose that's because I'm not scared."

"Dreams are a place for you to be naive and free," he said plainly. "It must be wonderful."

"Don't you dream?" Riley asked him sadly.

"If I do, I don't pay much attention to them."

"You ought to," she said. "Dreams can be quite telling."

"Says the psychologist. Calm down, Miss Freud."

He smiled at her, and Riley felt no incentive to hide her own wide smile. She cocked her head to the side, slinking further into the water. Sherlock rested his arms on the edge of the bathtub, leaning a bit closer to her now.

"You're different," Riley said. "You're… being very honest. Open."

"You really are a psychologist, aren't you?"

"And there you go," Riley said with a sigh, "slinking back behind your defensive walls."

"I'm in _your _dream," Sherlock said. "And since you decided that this isn't Hell, and because you and I both know this isn't a nightmare, I'm a projection of your subconscious desires, not your fears. I'm a version of who you _wish_ I could be, not who I am when I'm actually around you. I suppose you have to decide if you like this version of me better, or if you're willing to put up with the _real _Sherlock Holmes- the person I am when you're awake."

He was right. This Sherlock wasn't authentic- he was just a part of _her _mind, a figment of her imagination and a manifestation of everything she _wished_ Sherlock could be… A representation of how their relationship _might_ be, should both of them quit their games and decide to be up-front about their feelings and completely unguarded… They'd tried that once already, and it had failed_… _

_I ran away before I had the chance- I ran quickly, painfully, begrudgingly…_

"You say 'put up with' like it's a chore," Riley said.

"I'm told I can be quite difficult," Sherlock answered plainly.

"Well, you can be," Riley admitted.

For a brief moment, he looked heartbroken- not offended, but genuinely upset by the fact that he had ever made life difficult for her in any way. But she smiled warmly at him to let him know that it was alright, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"But I've been told that I'm the same," Riley said.

"So maybe this will work."

He leaned forward more towards the tub, his long fingers dipping into the water. He flicked a few petals away and ripples formed at the surface. His gaze was unwavering from hers.

_But now that I think on it… and even though doing it made me uncomfortable… _

His hand slowly disappeared in the water and she felt a soft touch brush against her knee. He hesitated to gage her reaction. But all she could do was stare at him. A chill ran down her spine as he continued, his hand moving further up her leg.

"I know I'm dreaming," she said quickly, "so that means I can wake myself up whenever I want, and-"

"But you haven't yet," Sherlock interrupted softly. "And you don't want to."

She slunk into the water a bit as his hand reached the top of her thigh. His rolled-up sleeve was getting wet now, and flower petals clung to it. He was smiling at her as his hand groped between her legs…

_I know if I had a second chance, I'd run back towards my fears and stare them down until they were silent, until they went away…_

_"_How do you feel?" Sherlock whispered.

He had a gentle and soft touch now- it was much different than it had been the last time they'd tried this, and it was certainly much different than any man's touch she'd ever experienced. _Could it really be this… enjoyable_? He moved slowly, and Riley found herself involuntarily slinking down into the tub, her hair clinging to her shoulders and covered in the purple flower petals, and her legs widening as Sherlock's hand submerged deeper into the water.

"You don't seem to mind," he answered for her with a small, nervous smile.

"Touching and feeling… aren't often correlated for me," she said, finding it hard to accurately describe how she was feeling. _Whole…_ _She felt whole..._ She closed her eyes momentarily, enjoying herself as the water sloshed a bit around her while he moved his hand…

"And which of those two do you fear more?" he asked.

_Until they weren't fears fears but something I… I don't know, enjoyed… _

Sherlock shifted his position and leaned over the bathtub closer to her face. Her head was rested on the rim of the tub, and gazed up at him through wide eyes as he leaned closer...

"Neither," she whispered. "I fear neither. And I want both."

This time when he kissed her, it wasn't like a car crash. It _was_ something Riley saw coming from a mile away, but she knew it wouldn't end badly. She knew she couldn't avoid it- but she didn't want to. She didn't pull away. She lifted herself up out of the water, twisting her body to face Sherlock, her wet hands wrapping around the strands of his hair as his did the same. They were both covered in the purple carnation flower petals, but Riley's upper half was out of the water now, pressed against his as he moved one hand to the small of her back…

This was not a car crash. But his hands were moving down the roadmap of her small, whole body, this time at a leisurely pace. She was in no rush to wake up.

"You could stay here, you know," Sherlock offered, before he started kissing her again, slowly and passionately. She leaned into him, shivering now that she was out of the cold water and relying on h

"I want to," she said quietly.

She felt an electric shock pulse through her as he cupped her face in his hands, still kissing her before he pulled away, leaving her momentarily heartbroken and lonely, even in his embrace…

"Or you could come me back to me," he said, holding her body close and looking straight through her. "The real me."

"How do I know you'll be like this?" she whispered. She felt another shock run through her body, this time more aggressive. "I can't- you won't let me have you, you wouldn't before… All I wanted was…"

"You know I won't be the same," he said quietly. "And I _did _let you have me. It'll take work. If you play your cards right- as you often do- you know I can be honest. I was already, but _you _ran away. Be patient with me like I was with you." He hesitated, smiled, then added, "but you know all this already, don't you, Miss Freud?"

Another shock hit Riley's body, and this one hurt her badly. She felt a sharp pain in her heart. _Someone was trying to wake her up…_ She closed her eyes for a moment, wanting to remember the softness of his hand on her face and the warmth he felt when he touched her… But when she opened her eyes, she knew he was gone- he had slipped right through her fingertips, much like silk did, and she was kneeling in the bathtub, half in the water and half out of it, alone.

The shock hit her again and she slunk back down in the tub, ready to go. She submerged herself in the water completely, feeling out of breath as the water swirled around her. And in the swiftest of a moment, she was opening her eyes to another blindingly bright room. She was wrapped in a blanket, not in water; she was alive, not dreaming or dead. She heaved a deep breath, missing the feeling of air in her lungs.

The first thing she saw was a large bouquet of purple carnations resting at a table in front of her. On the table behind it were a few more bouquets of other various kinds of flowers, along with cards and balloons.

She looked down at her hand- _it was warm… _Her wrists were bandaged with white gauze, and various wires came out of her chest and hooked up to a plethora of beeping machines. But in her hand was another hand… Keeping her warm…

Her eyes followed the shape of a long arm over to a chair at her side, where she saw Sherlock, fast asleep and looking peaceful. She watched him for a moment; she didn't want to wake him, but she wanted to ask what he was doing there- and how she'd managed to get out of the factory alive… _Had he gotten her call? _Had she actually heard his voice- _I'm going to carry you out… Please, no silence. Not now… _Had he been there as she felt like she was dying? Had he really been saving her as she'd been bleeding out in the bathtub, convinced that it was the end of her life, only to be saved by the one person who had saved her in so many different ways already?

She wanted to tell him she was going to be patient, and she was going to try, and that she _wanted_ to try… But for a moment, she just watched him fast asleep, looking peaceful, and she was thankful that he was there, and that she was alive.

_I felt SO bad with all your comments about cliffhangers and wondering if she was dead and I ended up changing the end of this chapter… Did you really think I'd kill her!? I'm not that cruel! Sorry! -FLB _


	12. Learning and Unlearning

Sherlock hadn't left Riley's side for the past two days as she lay asleep. He hadn't left the room with the exception of human errands, like going to the bathroom or to get food. The only other time he'd left was to take a phone call from Lestrade, who wanted an update on Riley's condition but saw no need to phone hospital officials or send an agent for that sort of thing.

Lestrade seemed to have completely forgotten that he and Donovan had almost accused him of murdering Peter- and even of potentially hurting Riley- and Sherlock saw the phone call as a sign of an apology for accusing him of the former of said two accusations, and he wasn't sure he'd ever forgive Lestrade for the moment of pain the latter accusation had caused him. According to Watson, who had dropped by the previous day to check up on both of them, the morticians had determined that the damage done to Peter's body in correlation to the hight of the fall was too mild for it to be a murder; had he been pushed, the damage would've been much worse.

Sherlock had always assumed that it would've been nice to sit in the same room as her in silence, alone with his thoughts yet devoid of loneliness; but there was nothing nice about this situation, where Riley was stuck in limbo between life and death, leaving Sherlock waiting for her to hopefully- to maybe, just _maybe- _wake up and create a flurry of wonderful noise, a noise comprised of all her witty, compassionate, fragile words… And he found that for once, he _wanted _someone to inquire as to what he was thinking, and he _wanted _someone else in the room to be thinking at his side…

A lot of visitors came to see Riley, but in her comatose state, most left in tears after saying a few words. Judging by their ages- and from recognizing a few familiar faces- a lot of them were her students, and Sherlock assumed that the older visitors were her colleagues, based on their formal attire. The students came mostly in medium-sized, annoying groups, and brought typical, thoughtless gifts like flowers, "get well soon" balloons, cookie baskets, teddy bears, and cards signed by her entire class. Her colleagues splurged on nicer sets of flowers, though no one but Sherlock managed to buy purple carnations, and he took it as a source of nervous pride (even in this moment of darkness) that he, indeed, knew her best.

None of her visitors stayed for more than a few minutes, though Sherlock assumed that his presence had something to do with that. He didn't introduce himself or speak to any of them. He just kept an eye on Riley, and occasionally his gaze shifted back to the visitors, as though he didn't trust them or want them close enough to touch her, even though he himself had a gentle grip on her hand and refused to let go of it.

A few people that visited asked Sherlock to notify them when she woke up, leaving their telephone numbers and email addresses with him. If it had been for anyone but Riley, he would've scoffed at such offers. But somehow he couldn't. And somehow, their innocent comments of "I didn't know she had a boyfriend, it's sweet of you to stay by her side" made him feel more inclined to take care of her.

It was obvious to Sherlock that she was well-respected and well-loved from the amount of attention her accident received. He hadn't expected this, and in his countless hours of paralyzed thinking as he waited for her to wake up, he revisited the differences between the two of them over and over again and worried that he wasn't worthy. _He admired her tenacity, her unwillingness to let all the negatives of her life hinder her wants and needs… She had friends, and colleagues, and even if only briefly, she had faced her fears and tried to be intimate with someone else… _She had survived, and she had just caused to keep her guard up, whereas Sherlock- _with no outside trauma and only the pain that being himself seemed to cause_- found himself yet again wondering how she'd managed to do all that with a smile on her face, and with a willingness to care, when he'd convinced himself all his life that caring was _not _an advantage.

Caring about her education had saved her. Caring about her friends had saved her. Caring about Peter, from what she heard, quite literally saved her by buying time for Sherlock to rescue her…

Sherlock wanted to tell her that he loved her while she was asleep, so she wouldn't hear it, and so he could hear himself saying these words for the first time- he'd never said them before- without any worry about what her response may be. But every time he tried to speak, the words stuck to his throat, and he found himself swallowing them quickly with a sense of aching fear that he'd never known before. He fell asleep mid-afternoon on that second day, slumped over in the chair and still holding her hand, with three little words stamping around his head like impatient children wanting to go outside and play.

Not soon after he'd fallen asleep did he feel a gentle rustle at the other end of his arm, and a finger lightly brushed against his skin. He snapped awake- he'd been waiting for this moment far too long to let is pass while he slept- and looked over at Riley, who was blinking ferociously to combat the bright lights of the white hospital room, and who was heaving in a few laborious breaths, now completely conscious. Half her face was cast in a strange dark shadow from the light that flooded through the open windows, but she looked as beautiful as ever…

He moved to withdraw his hand but she curled her fingers so his couldn't slip out of her grasp. Sherlock stood slowly, staring at her hand and then back at her. She looked not like she'd just woken up from a coma, but like she'd awoken from a pleasant dream and felt well-rested.

"You look _awful_," she said quietly. A pleasant, out-of-place smile crept up on her lips to show that she was obviously kidding.

_The most frustrating woman in the world… _There she was, half-alive, stitched up and left in the intensive care unit after she'd almost just been murdered… And she was making jokes.

_And that was why he loved her… _

"It was a joke," she muttered. "Comedy is a relief mechanism in tense situations. And you look like you could use some of that…"

She rubbed her eyes and winced ever so gently as her wrist pressed against her cheek. Putting pressure on her stitches was unwise; he wanted her to just lay there and rest until she was better, and to take all the time she needed- and then some- to heal… He needed her to be okay physically, and he couldn't imagine the mental recovery that this might take… But of course, this was Riley. And she as tenacious, and right now she was smiling. Just a moment after she'd rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and wrapped herself further in the blanket, she'd risen to sit up and turn slightly towards Sherlock, looking alive as ever and ready to converse.

""How long was I asleep?" Riley looked around the room at the masses of gifts. She was frowning in a subtle, surprised sort of way as she took it all in.

"I was obviously out long enough for a few people to notice," she muttered.

"It's only been two days," Sherlock said.

"People care _that _much?" she said quietly, almost to herself, still looking at the various gifts in her room. _How could she not know that everyone felt this way about her?_

"Apparently they do," he murmured. "You had a lot of visitors."

"How- how do you know?"

Sherlock hesitated. He hadn't planned on telling her that he'd been there the whole time. But even so, he explained, "I haven't left."

Her attention turned from the various and apparently unexpected gifts over to him. Last time they were alone… It had almost ruined their relationship. And then she'd almost died. And there they were now, alone again, and he was telling her that he had been there holding her hand- touching her- for two days straight, and somehow she was smiling, just as she'd been when she was limp in his arms, barely conscious...

He didn't understand it. Death didn't frighten him, but it did frighten most people- and yet again, he reminded himself: _she is like you, not like other people..._

_"_Did- did Peter escape?"

"He jumped out of the window once he realized the police were outside. He's dead."

Riley shut her eyes. _Was she going to cry? To mourn the loss of her student- the student who had tried to kill her? _Sherlock felt no compassion for Peter, obviously, but something in Riley did. It intrigued him.

Sherlock contemplated telling her exactly what happened- he wanted to brag about how he had rescued her, how he'd carried her out of the dark, abandoned factory to safety, and how he had stayed by her side, waiting for her to wake up… He wanted to let her know that he cared…

And then suddenly he didn't. Because every time he got close to her, he lost himself- his genius, his cunning, his investigative skills… And every time he tried to get closer to her, he actually _lost_ her- she ran off. Or she almost died. And he was beginning to wonder if staying at a distance and having her tangentially in his life was better than trying to get closer with the risk of losing her entirely…

He tried to remove his hand from hers, but she lightly gripped her fingers around his and he found himself trapped. Partially out of fear, and partially out of the realization that she might not have been conscious enough to appreciate her surroundings or even realize that he'd been there, he casually asked "do you remember anything?"

"Not much after I started bleeding. I-" She cut herself off mid-sentence with a look of nervous urgency, and then added, "did you come for me? At the factory..."

"I got your call and heard you recite the location. So I came to get you with a police unit. I found you in the bathtub, bleeding out."

"You were the first missed call in my phone," she admitted sheepishly. "But I-"

"You redialed the first number as it was easiest to do from your back pocket without being detected. I know."

"No, not entirely," she defended, sounding a bit impatient now, "I wanted to-"

"To call someone who could figure out your location using minute details over the phone," he said, "and seeing as I'm the only one for that job, it's understandable that you chose to call me."

He withdrew his hand from hers firmly and this time she didn't try to fight it. She was frowning now, her bright green eyes wide and sad.

"I could've dialed the police," she said seriously. "But I-"

"It would've been difficult to dial a number in your pocket without seeing your phone, Riley. Near impossible. You calculated your odds, figured out your best means of survival, and you-"

"Sherlock, _think," _she said patiently. She sounded as if she was talking to one of her patients and he suddenly felt insulted. "Do you really believe that of all the people I could try and call, you'd be the one I chose just because it's most _convenient_?"

"Yes, I do. Because it's logical_."_

"It _was_ convenient," Riley said, "but in a situation where my chances of survival were already slim, I might as well have taken the chance and called another number. I could've begged Peter for one last phone call to say goodbye to someone… He probably would've let me, I had him at my will, and-"

"Did you?"

"Yes_," _Riley said, "Sherlock, I had it under control, until I-"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said bitingly, "you _certainly_ had it under control." He gestured towards her wrists and then around at the room at large.

He stood up and moved away from her. _Had it under control. _Had she realized the severity of the situation? _How could she when she hadn't seen it from his perspective… When she hadn't carried a person she loved away from almost certain death, blood dripping and soaking her naked body… Only then could she realize… _

_"_You weren't there," she said. "Not everything is a calculation of risk. I thought I would make it out until I realized that his problems were far deeper than just a student trying to scare his professor… Until I realized that he was a serial killer, and he started explaining himself and I realized he was like me and you- that he was cunning, extremely observant, high functioning even if a bit off his rocker…"

"A bit," Sherlock repeated. "_A bit."_

She looked down at her lap, frowning, and a pang of anxiety tore at the pit of his stomach. She looked like she might cry. He just didn't grasp how anyone could think that a situation in which she had been coerced into slitting her wrists was considered _under control… _

"You didn't speak to him like I did," Riley pleaded. "I'm not saying what he did wasn't wrong, but he- he had a rough childhood, his dad beat him, and he was-"

"You cannot excuse his behavior because he had a tough time as a child_," _Sherlock hissed, like he was scolding a reckless child. "Look at _you_… You two are born of similar circumstance yet you chose two different paths. Are you really going to try and tell me that he didn't have a say in his fate? That he didn't _choose _what he became? You're not looking at the _facts. _And the fact is that you both began the same way and ended inherently differently-"

"He just wanted the pain to go away," Riley said, "he didn't study how to make that a reality, like I did, and he didn't-"

"Your compassion is clouding your judgement," he said firmly, "because you feel sorry that someone like you didn't end up as happy as you think you are."

"As happy as I _think_ I am?" she repeated.

"Don't fool yourself," he said, his anger rising, "you're still as damaged and torn apart as you were years ago, Riley. There's no excusing Peter for what he did."

"I'm not excusing him," she said, "I'm saying there is a _reason _he is that way, a reason_ beyond _his free will, a reason-"

"Riley. You've devoted your entire life to studying human behavior. And you really mean to tell me that free will isn't-"

"Yes," she interrupted stubbornly, "because people are inherently good, until someone who has previously been corrupted corrupts them, and the vicious cycle continues. It's difficult to break out of it unless you know how. Most people don't."

"How could you be so incredibly aloof?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Because I don't want to believe otherwise," she said. "The alternative is painful and lonely. And you-"

She cut herself off mid-sentence and heaved a sad sigh. Sherlock turned away from her.

"-I would know all about that," he finished for her, staring out the bright window.

"That's not what I was going to say," Riley said softly. "I was going to say that you _deserve _to know otherwise. And I really wish you would try."

Sherlock considered this. He sat back down in the chair next to her as she watched him, wiping a stray tear from her eye. _You deserve to know otherwise. _No one had ever told him he was worthy of _anything _except perhaps a medical evaluation or a good slap.

"Don't do that," she said sadly. "Please don't try and convince yourself that I don't care, or convince yourself that you don't, either."

"Give me a reason not to," Sherlock said, "seeing as last time we were alone you ran the other way when-"

"Your emotions are clouding your judgement," Riley said, echoing his own words. He sighed, but before he could retort, she added, "a few days ago as you were carrying me in your arms I asked if I could make you dinner, and now _you're _the one running off, Sherlock." She hesitated, then added, "and I don't want you to. I'm tired of us running away from each other."

_So she remembered what she had said to him… _He thought it had been a dying request- and at the time it had been dying- but now he realized that she had meant it… _She wanted this… She really did. _She was being honest in a way that he couldn't be, or at the very least never had been before. And he was surprised that she remembered any of what he had said at all…

"I remember," she whispered. "And I really did mean it."

He closed his eyes momentarily. _No one had ever wanted him before. No one had ever made an attempt to tell him that they cared… And he'd never done someone the courtesy of the same…_

"And you never gave me an answer about dinner."

He looked up at her again and she was smiling in a broad, obvious and mesmerizing sort of way. Her green eyes weren't covered with a haze of tears- they were alive and excited. She twisted a bit in her hospital bed to face him better and he got out of his chair to lean over at her bedside. She extended her hand slowly and shakily, reaching for him now, and before he knew what he was doing, he was sitting at the edge of her hospital bed, one arm twisted in the strands of her hair to keep her close and the other hand on her cheek, his lips meeting hers slowly as he held her there, like that, and kissed her for as long as she would have him.

_He'd never let another person hurt her again_. _He would never do anything that would put her in danger ever again, either. And he would certainly never do anything to drive her away from this very spot, where he was quite inexplicably happy having her close to him._

_"_I know there's not much left of me," Riley said quietly, "but you can have it if you want. And I'll try to unlearn all my bad habits."

"And what sort of bad habits are those?" he asked curiously.

"The ones that keep us apart," she said sheepishly. And she leaned forward a bit and began kissing him again, for as long as he would have her- which could be quite a long time.


	13. Strange and Natural

_I know I went away from this for a LONG time but I was feeling uninspired and I thought their story was finished; but a few of you have asked me to continue, so I decided to have another go, if any of you are still around and reading. Here's a chapter of the happy couple at peace… enjoy it while the serenity lasts ;) FLB _

**1) NYE. Just a really happy chapter. Don't have sex- he obviously wants to but doesn't pressure her, given the fact that she almost died a few days ago. She's very shaky; tries to drink, but Sherlock tells her that she's not allowed to- "on your pain medication? Really, Riley, I thought you were smarter than that/etc." THey just have a nice night together. She mentions wanting to go to Peter's funeral; Sherlock says that's outrageous; she says it will give her closure. He offers to go with her/etc.**

It was New Year's Eve, and rather than have a party with Mrs. Hudson, Watson and the like, Sherlock had opted to stay in with just Riley at her flat. It was her first full day home from the hospital, and Sherlock assumed that she wouldn't want to be alone- and well, _he_ didn't want her to be alone, either.

Sherlock knocked on her door and was greeted by the smell of delicious food as a nervous-but-excited looking Riley smiled at him warmly from the open doorway. She lingered for a moment before gesturing for him to come inside. She looked the most casual Sherlock had ever seen her, in jeans and a gray sweater with rolled-up sleeves. Sherlock noted the bandages on her wrists- a painful reminder that just a few days ago, things had been much worse, and not as lovely… When Riley saw Sherlock looking at her wrists, she rolled down sleeves self-consciously to cover the bandages.

Sherlock gently reached out to her arms. She looked as though she was about to flinch or shy away, but she stopped herself and looked up at him through those curious, sparkling green eyes that Sherlock… Loved. It was hard for him to wrap his mind around the fact that he was now feeling something he hadn't believed had existed- he felt as though if he didn't say it to himself enough, it would slip through his fingertips, and he would be left alone and miserable. Whenever he looked at her, or whenever he thought of her, he said it to himself. _I love you, Riley. I love you… _But somehow he couldn't bring himself to say it to her just yet.

He rolled up the sleeves of her sweater and moved further into the house, leaving her standing dumbfounded for a moment before she scurried back into the kitchen to continue cooking.

Should he say something? _Was that what people did on dates? _On _real _dates- not ones in which he'd try to get her to flee before they even introduced themselves? Did people just make dull conversation to fill the awful, uncomfortable void of silence?

He remembered how comfortable he felt in their sort of silence, and how he'd never felt the need to make awkward conversation around her. She scurried into the kitchen and busied herself over the stove, her back to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood at the center of Riley's flat for a moment, soaking it all in. All was silent, save for the sizzling of the food on the stove. Riley was lovely, as always, even with her back to Sherlock as she worked diligently to make their dinner; her hair was straight and long, and he could smell her perfume throughout the flat. Sherlock was content to spend his night with her, watching mediocre New Years Eve programming or just talking, or even just in silence, as they were now. All was well.

He approached her in the kitchen to see how she was doing, and saw a bottle of champagne in Riley's hand. She popped the cork out of it and Sherlock gently grabbed the bottle from her.

"What are you doing?"

"Celebrating," she said quietly.

Sherlock found it difficult to contest this… And when he looked down at her fragile body, the one that had almost been in pieces a few days ago, he felt a pang of guilt trying to stop her from doing anything. _Sympathy. _He could discuss the silly nature of the emotion endlessly, and yet… He felt it. Much like words he could not say: _I love you, Riley…_

"You've barely eaten anything at the hospital these past few days," Sherlock said, nudging the bottle away from her hand.

"I'm cooking dinner right now, aren't I?"

"You're on medication."

"No I'm not," Riley said. "They're painkillers, for the bruises and the- gashes, but they don't hurt."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Really, Riley, how could you possibly-"

"Sherlock," she said, turning around and putting her hands around his neck, "_I'm fine."_

Sherlock found himself momentarily distracted by her touch. She leaned into his chest and he rested his chin on her head, trying to engulf her in his embrace to keep her safe. He could feel her warm breath on his chest even through his shirt; _she was still breathing… That was enough. _A few days ago he wasn't sure a day like this would come.

Maybe she was fine. She'd never really drank before; it had always led to trouble for her as evident by the incidents when she was a teenager, or Christmas Eve… And she was still recovering. Sherlock wouldn't let her risk damaging her health when just a few days ago, she'd been clinging to life.

Riley pulled back after a moment, took her glass out of the cabinet again, and poured the two glasses of champagne- leaving hers only half-full and shooting him a teasingly reproachful glance over her shoulder. Sherlock sighed. _He had always liked the fact that she challenged him… But sometimes it drove him mad. _It always drove him mad, actually, but that was why he… loved her.

She handed Sherlock his glass and shook her hand at him to shoo him out of the kitchen.

"You promised to let _me _make you dinner," she said. "No helping."

She took two plates out of an overhead cabinet, and within a moment she'd arranged the food almost as well as a professional chef would have, and dinner was ready. Sherlock followed her into the living room and sat across from her at the small coffee table, where she'd set up two placemats. Everything about tonight was casual, and Sherlock didn't mind it. In fact, he had a sense that she'd done it on purpose, to avoid scaring him off. _As if it would be easy for her to do so… _She sat down, adjusting herself until she felt comfortable, and then she raised her glass as if to propose a toast.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," she said quietly.

He nodded and clicked her glass with his before taking a sip. She gulped down an enormous sip; Sherlock watched her curiously as she drank with a ferocity that made him a bit uneasy.

"I'm fine," she said, as though reading his thoughts.

The two ate in silence, slowly enjoying the meal she had prepared. She was an excellent chef, and the food alone was enough to make him question why he'd denied a dinner with her for so long; add onto that the enjoyment he'd derive from her company… He felt quite stupid for waiting so long to say yes.

He wanted to ask how she was feeling- how she was _really _feeling, and how she was coping with all the things this week that had threatened to destroy her, but he had a feeling she would just answer with "fine," so it was no use. He looked up at her every few seconds, enjoying the view, and sometimes their eyes met and both smiled. Sherlock felt like a school boy and realized, a bit ashamedly, that he was reliving the sort of teenage infatuation that his intelligence had deprived him of when he'd actually been a teenager. His first love had come very late, and she was it. But he supposed he couldn't complain.

Riley stood when she finished her food and moved to the other end of the coffee table, where Sherlock was. She sat right next to him, her leg right against his… Her shoulder leaning into his, as she rested her head on his chest…He slowly put his arm around her and she leaned into him more, as if she liked it. Weeks ago, this would not be happening.

_How did he do this? _How did he spend a night with his- _girlfriend? _Was she that? What were they going to do? Sherlock had never imagined wanting to spend the night alone with anyone just talking, let alone a woman. _What did he say to her?_ _What could he say to keep her interested, there in his arms… _

"What are you thinking about?" she asked slowly, leaning away from him to look at his face.

He looked down at her curiously. _Was it that obvious that he was lost in thought about her? _The gears of his mind were always turning, but no one had ever asked him what he was thinking before, because he'd always lacked a filter and made his opinion known, anyway…

"You look confused," she added with a smile. "I've never seen you look confused or lost, even."

"I've never seen _you _so…"

"Open?" she suggested.

"Well, yes," Sherlock said bluntly, gesturing towards his arm around her.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I don't want to be itching in my own skin," Riley said. "And you saved my life. I think that's enough."

He squeezed her shoulder and she draped her legs over his. He wanted to let her know that he wanted to stay with her always; that he didn't want to leave her alone, when someone could sweep her out of her office and try to hurt her again.

"How are you… feeling?"

"I'm fine," Riley said. Sherlock looked down at her, and she looked up at him. "Really, I am."

She took the dishes into the kitchen and poured two more glasses of champagne. In a moment, she was back on the living room floor- sitting a few inches from him now, not cozied up right next to him- and handed him a glass.

"Sure," Sherlock said dryly. "You're fine."

She took a sip of her champagne. "_I am,_" she said. "Peter is dead. You're here. I'd like it if we could not talk about it, because I don't _need _to. I have nothing to be afraid of."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. Once again, Sherlock was distracted- he forgot about the fact that she was clearly _not _okay, as evident by the fact that she was chugging champagne like water, and also her sudden physical distance upon Sherlock's dry response.

"Speaking of…"

Sherlock leaned back a bit to look at her. _This couldn't be good… _She took a sip of champagne again and set the glass on on the coffee table.

_"_I was planning on going to Peter's funeral," she said. "It's tomorrow."

"_Riley." _

"I knew you would react like this," she said quickly, "but listen-"

"It's a perfectly logical reaction," Sherlock said angrily. "You're not going."

"Sherlock, he has no one," she said. "His parents won't go to the funeral. I spoke with his girlfriend and she said she might not go, either."

"He 'has no one' _with reason_," Sherlock snorted. "Riley, how could you be so daft-"

"It will give me a sense of closure," she said.

"I thought you were 'fine.' If you need a sense of closure, you aren't. So either you're lying about that, or you're using that as an excuse to get my permission to go, or-"

"Well, I don't exactly need your _permission_," she said quietly.

Sherlock huffed a heavy, angry sigh. She could not possibly _want _to go to the funeral. She made him sympathetic and even… _loving, _but Sherlock could not feel that way towards others, especially others who had tried to harm Riley.

"You're not going," Sherlock said. "It's a rotten idea. Why bring it up if you knew how I'd react? Why not just go and keep it from me?"

"Because that's what people in relationships _do, _Sherlock," she said testily, "they work as a _team. _They don't keep secrets or lie, and when they need help… They ask for it."

Sherlock was extremely confounded by a variety of things in that statement, the first of which was her use of the word "relationship." The second befuddling part was that she was asking for help… What did she need his help with? Going to the funeral? That meant that she was, as Sherlock predicted, _not _alright at all.

He looked down at her, nestled in his arms as she finished off the last of her champagne. She was biting her lower lip slightly, and her eyes were half-open as though she was trying not to cry; he could tell from this nervous gaze that she probably regretted her choice of words, and Sherlock once again found himself sympathetic… She was trying so hard to be honest, and perhaps he should be honest with himself as well and not be so thrown off or offended by the fact that she was labeling their dynamic just as he wanted to: _a relationship. _

Furthermore if she was going to ask for his help… Well, he knew that it must be important because she was more than capable of handling most situations herself, and that was yet another reason he loved her. Sherlock was most certainly one to judge others based upon the amount of help they needed or wanted, or if they asked… But with Riley it was entirely different, and he could not judge her for needing him. And perhaps that was his new definition of love; he would help her, willingly and unashamedly, if only she asked.

"If it's really that important to you," he began, "I suppose I can go with you."

Riley smiled, still on the verge of tears, and she kissed Sherlock all too briefly before resting her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry for my poor choice of words," she said softly and suddenly. Sherlock knew exactly what she meant.

"I didn't think it was poor," Sherlock said. "And I… Don't mind it. I suppose."

She laughed lightly and curled her legs closer to her chest to get more comfortable. "Good," was all she said in response.

She stayed curled up on Sherlock like that for an hour or so before she fell asleep. Neither one spoke to the other. Sherlock listened to her breathing and could feel her heart beating with her chest close to his. He counted her pulse, which slowed… And slowed… Until eventually she fell asleep, and her heartbeat steadied to a rhythmic sort of thumping that sounded like lovely music, and her breathing was so soft that Sherlock barely heard it. He looked down at her small figure one last time before he shut his eyes, listening to the song of her, before he, too, fell asleep.


	14. Finish and Begin

In spite of the bitter winds and chilly January air, it was actually a sunny day at a small cemetery just outside of London. The cemetery was empty, and only one of the other graves was draped with flowers; it was pointless to put out a bouquet of flowers when it was too cold to sustain them. Sherlock and Riley quietly walked through the creaking gates of the cemetery, towards the only fresh grave in sight. She clutched his hand and he shot her a sideways look, unsure of how well she was holding up.

No one stood over the grave; it was freshly covered with dirt to signify that the coffin had just been lowered. They must have missed the burial, which Sherlock was thankful for- it was stupid enough, in his opinion, to mourn this monster in the first place. But Riley had insisted, and Sherlock did not want to deny her request for a bit of comfort on a day like this.

She stood over the foot of the grave for a few minutes in silence. Occasionally, she up looked at the headstone, but then her eyes drifted back towards the grave. Sherlock did his best to avoid looking at her, but he found it difficult to do so and occasionally peeked down at her to make sure she was alright.

"I'm fine," she said. She shifted uncomfortably on her heels. Sherlock took off his overcoat and draped it across her slender shoulders, as she was shivering.

A minute or so later she began to cry, and she curled into Sherlock. He had never comforted anyone before, let alone a woman standing over a grave, and he was unsure of how to proceed. He wrapped an arm around her waist as she cried into his chest.

"I hate this," she whispered. Sherlock resisted the urge to say "I told you so," and he also assumed that she was talking more so about the situation in general than she was about whose grave she was standing over.

"It's over now," Sherlock assured her. He felt stupid saying it. It wasn't "over." It would never be "over" for Riley. It had taken her years to come to terms with what had happened to her, and now she had to deal with the aftermath of this trauma as well. Sherlock felt his fist clench as he thought about it all.

Although _this _would never be "over" for her, Sherlock was determined to keep anything like this from happening again. If he couldn't satisfy her with a "normal" relationship, as he was sure he could not, he at the very least would do anything to keep her from another event like this, at any and all costs.

"I know," was all she said.

Sherlock tugged at her hand to move away from the grave, but she wouldn't budge. "Just give me a minute," she said quietly, "and then we can leave."

Sherlock let go of her hand and stepped behind her to give her privacy. He looked at the nearby graves- only one of which was covered in fresh flowers. They were lilac flowers- like the ones Riley wore pinned to her dresses, or kept as bouquets on her tables. Sherlock, finding this odd, approached the grave with the bouquet and bent down to read the card pinned to it. His name was scribbled on the front of the envelope in messy, bold font.

He checked behind his shoulder and Riley was still at the grave. She was mumbling something that Sherlock could not hear and he assumed she'd be another minute. Sherlock opened the card quickly; inside it said, "_The place she almost died. Thursday. 7pm. Alone, or she hurts again." _He tucked the card into his pocket and left the flowers at the grave.

Riley finished mumbling after another minute or so and turned around to face Sherlock, wiping a few stray tears from her eyes. She took a deep breath and then said firmly, "let's go." She gently took Sherlock's hand and started walking towards the cemetery gates.

Sherlock's panic was difficult to contain. _This was not going to happen to her again. He would prevent it at any and all costs. _Riley had stopped crying and remained quiet on their ride home. Sherlock tried not to stare at her; but he found this difficult once again, and she piped up with another "I'm fine." Sherlock was not convinced. And in fact, he was not fine, either.


	15. Risk and Games

_I'm sorry this took so long- I live in Boston so as you can imagine, the last week has been a bit busy and scary. Also: I feel like the last 3 chapters have been a bit lackluster, and I'm very sorry. I'm busy and working on other projects but I PROMISE I will make the next few chapters really great. -FLB _

As per instructions, Sherlock went to the abandoned factory at seven o'clock that Thursday evening to meet whoever it was had left him flowers on the stranger's grave. He hadn't told Riley where he was going, nor Watson for that matter; the person had obviously known Riley well enough, or at the very least had been monitoring her closely enough, to know where she'd be in order to leave the flowers there, where Sherlock would find them when he accompanied her to Peter's grave. Sherlock was not about to disobey this new enemy until he knew exactly who he was dealing with.

He climbed the stairs to the top floor of the factory and at the other end of it, saw a stout man in a suit standing over one of the bathtubs. He was rubbing his chin, and once he heard the door behind Sherlock click, his head snapped up and he smiled broadly. Sherlock started walking towards him.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

"What is it you want, Moriarty?"

"My, my, you're a bit frisky tonight, hmm?" he said. "Is the new wife keeping you all preoccupied? Or perhaps she's _not _occupying you, and that's the problem…"

"Her ways of occupation are quite indulging," Sherlock said. "Though I'm not sure _I'm _the frisky one."

"I wouldn't try to lie if I were you," Moriarty said, shaking his had and clicking his tongue in disapproval. "I know everything about Miss Parker and her knickers, and I happen to know that you've yet to be in them."

_Everything? _

"Everything," Moriarty emphasized, as if reading Sherlock's thoughts.

"I was expecting you behind the _last_ attack," Sherlock said dryly, trying to change the subject and win back the power in this conversation. "Meeting in a dark, abandoned factory that's already staged a drama seems… hardly original."

"Oh, this isn't an attack!" Moriarty exclaimed in disbelief. "No, Sherlock, not in the slightest…"

Sherlock stopped ten or so feet from Moriarty. He was unarmed and Sherlock knew he probably had armed guards on the premises. They were well-hidden if he did.

"What exactly is it you'd like?" Sherlock asked. "I'm a bit busy now, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"Yes, and that's precisely the _problem,_" Moriarty said sadly. He frowned and shook his head. "You see, Sherlock, when the intellectual mind becomes… Emotionally satisfied, it goes to waste. I _miss _you, Sherlock! I miss these little chats of ours, these little… Exchanges, these games…"

"I'm not one for games as of late," Sherlock said dryly.

_"Don't lie!" _Moriarty screamed. He composed himself within a moment and then continued, "and isn't that how you two met? A game? A _bet?_"

Sherlock tried to suppress his frown. Moriarty knew more than Sherlock thought he would.

"And that's how you're trying to know her!" Moriarty continued. "Silly board games, asking questions to… To get to _know_ one another… Since when do you, Sherlock Holmes, need a _reason _to do that?"

So he'd been to Sherlock's apartment. That was hardly surprising nor did it really frighten Sherlock… But if Moriarty was going through these lengths to get Sherlock to play a game- whatever that game was- then he would undoubtedly go to Riley's flat, too… And that was worrisome.

"The truth is," Moriarty said, heaving a playful sort of sigh, "_I _need you. More than _she _does. _I want you. _More than she ever will, with all your… Your blunt deliveries, your pushing and shoving people, keeping them at arm's length-"

"What's your _point?_" Sherlock hissed. Moriarty laughed, knowing he had touched a nerve. Though known for his impatience, Sherlock knew it was not a smart move to show this side of himself with Moriarty.

"I'd quite enjoy a game with you, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty said with a smile.

"And should I refuse?"

"I'm not sure that's an option."

Sherlock sighed. He was trying, and hopefully succeeding, to hide his grief over Moriarty's words. He was not amused. His relationship with Riley was not a game to him, nor was her own safety. He knew Moriarty could see his

"Have I hit a nerve?" Moriarty asked with a laugh.

"I could kill you," Sherlock said

"I don't think you will."

"Are you so sure about that?"

Sherlock stepped towards Moriarty swiftly. His eyebrows raised and he threw up his hands in defeat, stepping away from Sherlock- who, a moment too late now, realized that this lunge towards Moriarty was just what he was looking for. _What was happening to him?_ He'd never reacted like this to threats from any of his enemies… Not in dealing with Mrs. Hudson or Watson, either… _Had he really lost as much control as Moriarty seemed to think he did? _

"Dear me, Mr. Holmes!" he said with mock enthusiasm, "you have to buy me dinner first! I guess her whole 'I was abuse, poor me, don't touch!' thing has you a bit restless, hmm?"

Sherlock stepped back, waiting for Moriarty's laughter to die down before he could ask what exactly the rules of Moriarty's game were, and when exactly the game would end…

Sherlock's phone rang. He dared not check it. If it was Riley, he'd hardly want to talk to her in front of Moriarty. And anyone else that needed to reach him would just be wasting his time.

"Better answer that," Moriarty said, raising his eyebrows in delight. _This could not be good. _Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket, seeing that it was Riley calling. Moriarty nodded to encourage Sherlock, so he picked up the phone.

"Is there any chance I could call you back later?" Sherlock said quietly. "I'm a bit-"

"_The first game," _a gruff, unfamiliar voice said quietly, "_is to find one of the three who will lead you to _the_ one of the three." _Before Sherlock could answer, the phone clicked and the line was dead.

Sherlock looked back at Moriarty, who still looked absolutely delighted. Sherlock knew that Riley was safe- Moriarty wouldn't hurt her just yet, at least not too badly… _What if he _had _hurt her? Was that the game? To see if he could keep Riley safe from Moriarty's attacks? _

"Which would hurt you more?" Moriarty asked. "To see her dead, or to live in a place knowing that she wants nothing to do with you?"

Moriarty turned on his heels and sauntered out of the factory, snapping his fingers. "I'd hurry if I were you," he called over his shoulder, his words ricocheting off of the high ceilings and concrete floor, "I'm dangling her on a thread above a pool of lava, but there's no telling just how strong that thread is, or when it'll…" He snapped his fingers one last time, laughed, and exited through another door that Sherlock hadn't noticed previously.

Sherlock bolted to the exit behind him and down the stairs. He knew it would be useless, but he called Riley's cell phone again, and got no response. He tried to remember her schedule… _Where would she be on a Thursday night? _He had yet to talk to her on this Thursday, trying to avoid her asking what he was doing that night so he wouldn't have to lie… She seemed good at knowing when he was doing that, which would no doubt make whatever game he was about to play quite difficult…

_Thursday night. _She was at her office. She'd mentioned something about grading papers; she was most likely at her office. He headed over there as quickly as he could. Riley's offices were in one of the campus buildings, and Sherlock doubted they would be closed until at least nine o'clock. Getting in should be easy, and Sherlock just prayed that the door to her individual office wasn't locked once he got there.

He looked at the directory of rooms and ran up to room 319, where it was listed that her offices were. The hallway was deserted; all the doors were locked, and Sherlock heard no other faculty members still there. When he got to Riley's office, the door was closed, but not locked. Sherlock pushed open the door swiftly and peered around the room. Riley wasn't at her desk, nor the comfortable armchairs near a book to the corner-

She was, however, laying on the floor in the fetal position, unconscious but still breathing...


	16. Hurting and Healing

Sherlock whipped out his phone once the brief shock wore off and he dialed Lestrade's office immediately. When Lestrade picked up the phone, Sherlock gave the address of Riley's office and demanded a unit be sent over immediately, along with an ambulance. He did not wait for Lestrade's reply before he hung up the phone.

He observed Riley for a moment but felt hazed over and unable to concentrate. _Think, Sherlock. Her body position. The door was open… What does it all mean? _He drew no immediate conclusion, as he would have in any other circumstance… _Had it not been Riley laying on the floor_. He took a deep breath and pounded the side of his head with his knuckles as though trying to rattle around his thoughts to make sense of it all.

So far, his only hint was that he knew Moriarty had done this, but… Why? None of her drawers were open and nothing in the office seemed to be in disarray- and this was _Riley_, the neat freak who had a place for everything. A single paper out of place would be cause for suspicion. Whoever had done this was either trying not to make a break-in or theft obvious- that seemed a bit too convenient, but perhaps intentionally so, for someone so devoted to playing games as Moriarty- or they had attacked Riley merely to attack and frighten her, and to provide Sherlock with a warning should he consider not complying with Moriarty's games… But if so, why hadn't they done more bodily harm?

Sherlock remembered the phone call. _The first game is to find one of the three who will lead you to _the_ one of the three. _Riley's phone was in her pocket; Sherlock could feel it as he held her against him. He doubted looking for finger prints would help. These were Moriarty's men; they were professionals.

He looked around the room again. Various books and a large stack of term papers were spread out on one side; on the other side was a half-eaten salad and a small glass of wine, which seemed quite peculiar to Sherlock for an assortment of reasons, the first being that Riley was not a casual wine drinker. This caused him to worry about Riley's declarations that she was "fine," but he would delve into that later when she woke up. The salad looked to be of cheap, poor quality; it was bought, not made from home. The wine was also somewhat cheap, though not altogether. Someone had given her this wine as a gift or for them to mutually share, though Sherlock doubted it was the latter, because he assumed that the drink was what had caused her to

Sherlock guessed that the food wasn't poisoned; most poisons were lethal, and Riley was still breathing. He looked for the food bag nearby, which was underneath her desk. He opened it and out fell a small notecard and the receipt of a local posh restaurant.

Sherlock picked up the notecard, which read: "Looking forward to our next dinner. Here's some lunch to hold you over. -SH".

So Moriarty was trying to frame him for drugging Riley. Sherlock bent down swiftly and took Riley's pulse, which was slow but still dragging along. Her body position- face-down on the floor, with her arms sprawled at her side and her slender legs in a tangled mess- suggested she was not expecting to pass out. She also would have called for help if she had been suspicious of being poisoned; she wasn't as aloof as most ordinary people.

"Riley," Sherlock said urgently, shaking her arms and scooping her up off the floor, "_Riley_… Riley… Wake up…"

He pulled her close to him, as they'd been laying just a few nights ago when she'd fallen asleep on him, and he was sadly reminded of how they had been just a few nights ago, when she had been fast asleep in his arms.

"Riley," he said loudly. He supported her back with one arm as she slumped against him, and he used the other arm to clutch her face and shake it back and forth. He was as gentle as he could be without harming her, but he needed her to wake up.

"Please…"

Her eyes began to flutter and her lips tightened like she was in pain. She opened her eyes slowly, looking up at Sherlock

"Get rid of the food bag," Riley said. "I- just do it."

"I don't want to leave you here alone," Sherlock said. "Are you alright? Do you remember who gave it to you?"

"They're going to think it was you," Riley said weakly, "The note… I know it wasn't… Just get rid of it..."

Sherlock gently shifted her so that her back was leaning against the side of her desk. He took the bag of food, the salad and the bottle of wine and disposed of it in the dumpster behind the building before he ran back upstairs.

By the time he came back, Riley had managed to seat herself in her office chair. She was rubbing her head and her arm as though it had been injured in the fall.

"I called Lestrade," Sherlock said. "He'll be over in a minute."

"I'll tell them it

"No," Sherlock said. "Do you remember who gave you the food?"

"A delivery boy," Riley said. "He seemed adequate. There was nothing suspicious about him… I just remember grading papers and I got up from sitting for a few hours to get a book from the shelf, and it just hit me..."

She drifted off, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Sherlock knew that she was He also draped his coat over her shoulders, in spite of her hisses that she was "_fine" _and didn't need to be coddled. She was shivering from shock. She opened the top drawer of her desk.

"Keys are out of place," she said. She tried to stand, but Sherlock gently pushed her shoulders down, suggesting she rest. "Always on the left side of the drawer…"

Sherlock and Riley heard the quiet _ding _of the elevator and several pairs of footsteps followed.

"You can tell me exactly what's going on after they leave," Riley said quietly. "For now I'm going to tell them it was a break-in and someone hit me over the head with a textbook."

Sherlock took one of the textbooks on her desk and left it slightly askew on the desk, as though this was the weapon of choice. Riley nodded.

"Riley-"

"Oh, shut up," she said quietly, as the footsteps grew louder.

Just then, Lestrade, Donovan and two armed officers entered the room, followed by two other detectives and a handful of medical technicians with a stretcher, as per standard procedure.

"I'm not going to the hospital," Riley said abruptly. "I'm fine. Hit over the head, but no signs of a concussion." Lestrade frowned and looked at Sherlock as if to scold him for calling the ambulance.

"What do we know so far?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Well, she was unconscious from an attack from behind," Sherlock lied. "The textbook slightly out of place on her desk-" he pointed to the book that he'd just moved, "- suggests that was the weapon of choice, and body position suggests. Did you see anything?"

"No," Riley said. "I leave my door open for students who need to visit or ask questions, and the building is unlocked, so anyone could've entered during that time."

"Were there any other faculty members here? Anyone who could've seen something?" one of the detectives asked. The group started surveying the room.

"Everyone left around five," Riley said, "so you'd have to consult with anyone on this floor who was working before then. I can give you their names."

"Anything stolen?" Lestrade asked.

"I haven't checked," Riley said, looking around the room. "But the keys in my drawer were out of place."

"Well, if you were unconscious, someone could've taken the keys," one of the detectives that Sherlock didn't recognize piped up.

"Thank you for that brilliant analysis," Sherlock muttered.

"Do you remember what time it happened?" the other detective piped up. The first was trying to busy himself in the room, as though doing something important, to stay away from Sherlock.

"Probably around two o'clock," Riley suggested. "That's the last I remember."

"And you found her here?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Yes," he said.

"Hang on," Donovan piped up suddenly. Sherlock was surprised that it had taken her so long to interject the conversation with what he was sure would be useless banter. "Is she your _girlfriend_ now?"

"I hardly see how that's relevant," Sherlock interrupted.

"Sherlock Holmes," Donovan said tartly, "has a _girlfriend. _Freak One and Freak Two…Everything I've ever thought…" She shook her head and laughed.

Riley reached for Sherlock's hand as Donovan finished speaking. She held it comfortably and leaned against his waist, as he stood by her side at the desk. Sherlock knew she was probably doing it to spare Sherlock's feelings- or perhaps to antagonize Donovan, who had been nothing but cruel to her- but either way… He didn't quite mind it.

Sherlock observed the filing cabinets and numerous bookcases. As they were at her flat, all of the books were alphabetized, and everything was organized in a labeled bin or box. Sherlock found himself smiling. Her persona flooded the room and contrasted so starkly to how disorganized his flat was… He wondered how she visited there without cringing at the mess of it all.

"Sherlock?"

He turned around to see Lestrade and several other officers staring at him. _Was this what it was like to be lost in thought… About someone else, and not about a crime scene? _He snapped himself back to attention and remembered that it would be extremely unwise to hint anything towards Moriarty's involvement in this predicament at large.

"The motives of the scene are unclear," Sherlock said. "Either the attacker was a professional criminal, and left no traces of a break-in even though he stole something, or it was someone who just-"

He cut himself off and turned around to face the bookshelves, as though trying to make a deduction or observe something important, but he could feel Riley's eyes on his back and knew that she saw right through him.

"Just what?" she asked. The dull chatter in the room and the snapping of crime scene photos momentarily ceased.

"Wanted revenge," Sherlock said briefly. "Or holding a grudge."

Riley stared at Sherlock for a good, long moment, as though understanding that these were the motives behind whatever it was that someone was trying to frame him for. She knew not of Moriarty, and Sherlock planned to keep it this way; he was trying to work out an excuse as to what could have caused this attack on her- a way that was feasible to her, especially seeing as she was clever enough to figure it all out… Sherlock smiled at the thought of it, but it worried him nonetheless.

"Well, we can file a report and we'll dig into the surveillance footage of the building," Lestrade said. "Riley, if you find anything missing please give us a call. We'll also interview anyone in the building at the time. Otherwise there's not much conclusive evidence we can draw from the scene here. We'll take the book and fingerprint it."

"Thank you," Riley said politely. She tugged at Sherlock's coat and pulled it further around her neck. "I appreciate it."

Lestrade started to file out with his men, who finished taking pictures and surveying the scene after a moment. After their footsteps fell silent and Sherlock and Riley heard the sirens of the police cars leaving the building, Riley swiveled her chair around to face Sherlock, who was observing her books intently, trying to avoid the conversation they were about to have. He turned to look at her after a moment and frowned; she had the most righteous, "what the hell are you hiding from me?" sort of look that ordinary folk would be accustomed to receiving from their significant other, but to Sherlock it was an authoritative, challenging sort of look that was entirely foreign.

"Before you tell me it's something that I can't know because 'it's safer that way,'" she started furiously, "or before you give some excuse as to what this is all about, I want you to-"

"It _is_ safer for you not to know. And I'm not going to lie to you. I'm just not going to tell you."

She crossed her arms in sheer frustration and huffed out an obviously displeased sigh. He had never seen her so outwardly angry before.

"So you're just not going to explain tome why someone falsely sent me a package from you with drugged wine and then broke into my office."

"Speaking of," Sherlock said, "you should

Riley gritted her teeth. "That can wait."

"Can it?"

She stood slowly and Sherlock offered a hand to steady her, but she refused it. _All the cliches he'd ever heard about angry women… They were all true. Hell really hath no fury like a woman scorned. _She started rummaging

"This isn't going to work if you lie to me," she said.

"I'm not lying," Sherlock argued. "I'm simply not telling you _anything_."

"What's the difference?" Riley said stubbornly. "Look, Sherlock, we have both been through quite an ordeal lately. I understand that if someone was threatening me, and trying to frame you for it- with the lunch and the drugged wine… If you think it's better to handle alone, you're wrong. You are going to keep all this to yourself and it's going to swallow you whole. I can take care of myself and if you're so concerned about my safety, well, I'd at the very least_ appreciate it_ if you could involve me in some way."

"Is this you talking as a therapist, or as-"

He cut himself off immediately, afraid to say the one simple word that had always escaped his grasp- the word he thought he was too good for, the word he associated with fools who wasted time, putting their heart on a silver platter like a holiday roast ready to be carved…

"You can say the word," Riley said. "It's alright."

"I don't feel as though I need to."

"No, you feel as though you _shouldn't. _That's a bit troublesome."

Sherlock frowned. That was not at all his intention. _Did she really think that was what he wanted? _He didn't know how or where to begin being like this, and if she thought otherwise...

"You need to tell me the truth," Riley continued, "and you need to talk about all of this."

"You're one to preach about being open about trauma."

"So you admit that seeing me in the factory, near-death, covered in blood was-"

"Stop it," Sherlock growled loudly. "_Enough."_

Riley looked at the floor momentarily, like a puppy that had been scolded by its master.

"You and I are above the 'talking about our feelings' plight that shapes the weak," Sherlock explained. "I am used to seeing that sort of thing. I'm a detective. I solve murders all the time."

"Except they're of strangers," Riley said, "and not your _girlfriend."_

Now it was Sherlock who felt like a scolded pet, but she smiled at him twistedly as if marking victory. He knew she was right, in some small sense. But he, obviously, would never admit to it.

"Fine," Riley said with a sigh. "Dinner. Tomorrow at seven o'clock. And to give you some incentive: for every truth you own up to, I'll owe you dinner and a glass of wine."

"You don't have to give me an incentive to come to dinner with you," Sherlock said bluntly. "Don't be so obvious."

"Fine," Riley said. "For every truth that you admit to- not one I figure out, but one you _admit to- _I'll owe you the same. Kind of like our first date." She paused, then added, "if you can call trying to win a bet a 'date.'"

She was smiling, even though she seemed so aggravated by Sherlock, and… well, that was enough for him. If he was going to commit to this- wholeheartedly, unashamedly, and in every sense of the word "commitment" that he'd recklessly abandoned in his entire lifetime thus far- this was part of the deal.

"Fine," he said. "And I assume you're not going to let me take you to the

"Of course not."

"Riley. You were drugged."

"It's worn off," she said stubbornly. "I'm fine."

Sherlock, frustrated by her repeated use of this phrase that was so obviously a guise for all the ways she was _not _fine, let out a heavy sigh.

"But I will admit that I'd prefer not to stay alone tonight," Riley said, as if this was a bargain that she knew would ease his frustrations. Sherlock tried not to seem overly eager about this opportunity; it was the wrong night for anything to happen.

"Fine," Sherlock said. He offered his hand to help Riley stand up and she took it slowly. She stood and offered Sherlock to take back his coat, but he made her keep it. She walked slowly, and Sherlock stayed nearby to support her in case she was too weak to walk.

They reached Riley's flat and before she even had time to change her clothes, she curled up in a small lump on her bed and fell asleep. Sherlock wished he could change her into something more comfortable but that was, obviously, out of the question. He dared not sleep next to her or even on the other end of her king-sized bed; he did not want to make her uncomfortable, especially now, when he was obviously meant to protect her. So he covered her in her blankets and pulled up a chair to sit at her side.

Sherlock stared at Riley, with her bandaged wrists tucked under her head as she slept, and was reminded of why people didn't bother with this sort of thing to begin with: it was too dangerous. He wondered how much danger she was in. Sherlock wanted to jump right into this case and solve it, to keep her out of harm's way, but he knew Moriarty was too dark and too clever to make it easy for Sherlock. This could drag on endlessly and who knew how much hurt Riley would have to endure along the way? _Should he leave her? Would that be safer?_ He had never meant to involve Riley; Moriarty had reared his ugly head at the worst possible moment, and Sherlock was left with the vague sense that this would all end badly, in spite of the fact that he was determined to keep her safe.

He was reminded of the last time he had been watching he like this, when she had been clinging to life in the hospital. It had been just over a week since she'd been released and the bandages on her wrists were still necessary. Looking at her, breathing slowly, reminded of this recent memory of when she'd been in pain… It reminded Sherlock of why people didn't bother with this sort of thing to begin with: it hurt when the one you loved hurt.


End file.
